


It’s Polite To Knock

by Avigael



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Cannon-Typical), Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arachnophobia, Art, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Betrayal, Cannon-Typical Elias Bouchard, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Discussions of death, Extra CW in the notes of each chapter, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, I’m trying to cover all the CW but I promise it’s far more comfort than hurt, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Minor Character Death, Other, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Web!Jonathan “Jon” Sims
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avigael/pseuds/Avigael
Summary: “So,” the creature smiled, a twisted thing of fangs and woven deceit, “before we go any further. Hello Archivist.”An arm reached up to tilt his hat chivalrously at her. He fixed his octet of arachnid eyes to hers, and Sasha felt her breath catch in her throat.“I’m Mr. Spider.”Jonathan Sims had always hated spiders. The phantom sensations of silk cloying down his throat, of skittering legs and venomous bites.He was always meant to be a part of Mother’s plan, except this time the book did not land where it may have. This time, the door did not close shut.Mr. Spider wants more.This time, the door creaked back open.Based on apocalypsokane’s comic
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Everyone & Trauma, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 90
Kudos: 206





	1. A Guest For Mr. Spider

**Author's Note:**

> The [comic](https://apocalypsokane.tumblr.com/post/636411635432669184/sasharchivist-au-a-guest-for-mr-bouchard) this story was based off off is by apocalypsokane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [comic](https://apocalypsokane.tumblr.com/post/636411635432669184/sasharchivist-au-a-guest-for-mr-bouchard) this story was based off off is by apocalypsokane

Gertrude Robinson stared impatiently as the young man finished writing his Statement. She wasn’t an impatient woman by nature, but this particular Statement giver had been writing and rewriting his words in an effort to make them somewhat legible, a process that had taken him the better part of an hour.

The lack of steadiness in his hands did not leave her feeling optimistic.

He attempted to place the pen she had given him back onto the table, knocking over a stack of documents in the process and spilling two days’ worth of research onto the floor. 

Gertrude sighed as he mumbled a frantic string of apologies. She would have to ask Emma to help organize them again later. The was assuming Emma wasn’t too busy looking for new sacrificial lambs. 

Gertrude wasn’t in a position to judge, but damn if that anger didn’t burn in her veins, sparking a new wave of frustration at every stuttered apology.

She sighed again, and waved him off dismissively. “Yes, yes, it’s quite alright, you can stop now.”

She held out her hand and made a perfunctory gesture for him to hand her the Statement. She very carefully avoided any physical contact as she did so; Lord knows she had enough things trying to mutilate, infect, distort, disembowel, or otherwise maim her.

She was aware of the man fidgeting her in her peripheral while she flicked her eyes over the words and quickly scanned for the subject material.

 _Ah._ Another damn Leitner. She would need to have a serious discussion later with the man about this particular book of his.

She landed her gaze back on the Statement giver, who flinched almost imperceptibly just from the weight of it. Christ, if the man couldn’t possibly be _more_ skittish.

“I’m um, I’m...” He gestured vaguely at the form in her hands. “My—I’m not sure if—”

Stuttering again. Perfect. Even the Eye’s influence couldn’t drag coherency from his lips. 

She massaged her temples to combat her growing headache. “Yes, yes, very good,” she grumbled.

“Should I...?” He stood up from the chair on unsteady legs and glanced at the door. “Or do you—do you still—do you still need something from me?”

She shook her head, ignoring the way it made the room spin. “No, Mr. Sims. That will be all.”

“Right.” He swallowed. “I just that I, I uh... Is that really all I can do? B-because I—I don’t—“

 _Christ_ , the man was hyperventilating, and she had no intention of dealing with another Statement giver’s panic attack today.

She kneaded at her eyes with the heels of her palms. 

Good Lord, she was tired. 

“ _Jonathan_ ,” she snipped, and the man immediately paused to look up at her with puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

It was then that she noticed a small, blackish-grey spider crawling up his arm of his deep purple sleeve. His gaze followed hers and he abruptly lurched out of his chair with a panicked shout, scrambling backwards across the floor. His eyes darted wildly around for a spider that Gertrude knew full well was long gone.

There was a growing suspicion in her gut about the nature of this particular encounter; Gertrude scanned through his Statement again and the words finally sunk in.

 _Ah._ The Web. 

The thrum of white-hot rage in her chest was steadily rushing up to her head, the sound of blood and jumbled thoughts roaring in her ears.

Gertrude had had _enough_ with the Web.

When she took a moment longer to actually observe the man, she noticed he was missing shoes. Was Rosie simply letting any mal-mannered barbarian to wander into *her* Archives barefoot, tracking dirt and blood along with him? It was all abhorrently ridiculous, and a small part of her was impressed that Elias had allowed such stains to tarnish his precious Statements.

“Jonathan,” she said, and his terrified black eyes snapped up to look at her.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled.

“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“Oh! Uh...” An embarrassed look spread over his back as his gaze landed at his feet. “I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any...” She squinted at him. “... _shoes_.”

“Ah,” he grimaced, “no, not really.” He seemed to slink into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them protectively.

Actually, the more she looked at him, the less put-together he appeared. His clothes were streaked with dirt and soot, his hair was a bird’s nest of tangled curls, his skirt was frayed and torn, and he looked gaunt with exhaustion and malnourishment.

“I take it you’ve been living on the streets.”

“What?”

“ _Have you been living on the streets, Jonathan?_ ”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, before his expression twisted into indignation and confusion. “I—“

“Tell me,” Gertrude continued, “how exactly did you find out about this Institute.”

“A man, he approached me and said that... that I had a story to tell, that I should come here to tell it. He had uh... these unnaturally green eyes?”

“ _Was his name Elias Bouchard?_ ”

“Yes,” the man answered. She could tell that he was growing more confused with each question, gripping at the fabric of his skirt. “At least—At least I think it was? I-I-I don’t r-really remember if it was—“

Gertrude leaned forward in her chair. “ _What exactly did he say to you?_ ”

“He offered me a job. S-said I would be good for the Research department since there was a new opening. He said he had great plans for me, wh-whatever that means.”

Gertrude’s smile froze on her face, never reaching her eyes.

“Did he now?” she asked in a painfully clipped tone.

“Um, y-yes—“ He attempted to get his feet under him. “Can I g-go? He said I should go talk to him as soon as I was done and I really don’t want to keep him waiting—“

Apparently the Eye was feeling gracious after receiving such a fine meal, because it slipped a small scrap of Knowing into the creases of her mind.

Elias was making a contingency plan for her death. 

“Mr. Bouchard is making a fool of you,” she abruptly lied, pulling him out of his rambling and into a metaphorical pool of freezing water.

He stared at her numbly. “Wh-what?”

The half-truths flowing from her lips tasted saccharine. “He just told you that so you would make a Statement. He’ll take your interview, but he’ll never hired you. Not in your current position.” 

“Oh,” he mumbled, visibly deflating. “I... I see.”

She folded her hands together in her lap. “But,” she offered, “I do happen to know of another opening at one of our Sister Institutes.”

His spine abruptly straightened. “Really?” he asked, in the kind of childish wonderment that did absolutely nothing for her heartstrings.

“Yes,” she replied, “but I would recommend you pick yourself off of the floor before you go.”

“Oh!” he yelped, frantically trying to scramble upwards. “Yes, yes that makes sense, uh, sorry, one second.”

He managed to raise himself up on shaking legs, leaning heavily against the wall for balance.

“Here,” she said brusquely, holding out a slip of paper with a name, an address, and her signature.

All things considered, a slip of paper was much easier to orchestrate then burning a young homeless man alive.

“The Fanshawe Institute?” he read aloud, tone full with wonderment. “What would I do there.”

“It’s a job, isn’t it,” she droned.

“Oh!” he yelped. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m very grateful, I am, just... what would I do there?”

“Research,” she answered, “you would look for answers and make discoveries. I imagine that interests you?”

He nodded wildly, a grin of pure joy that reeked of gratefulness plastered to his face. 

He almost looked like Michael had.

“Yes! That—That sounds incredible!”

“Good,” she droned, I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

Gertrude left out the fact that there was almost always an available position, given the lackluster longevity rate.

If she had been anyone else, she may have taken a moment to feel guilty about sending the Statement giver directly into the mouth of the beast. But Gertrude Robinson was _not_ anyone else.

Just under two years ago, she had thrown Jan into the Buried limb by limb. Four months ago, she had sent Michael into a twisting maze of which she knew he could never escape. 

She had no qualms plucking the legs off of a spider. Even if that meant sacrificing an arachnophobe to the spiders.

She would _not_ , allow Elias to replace her with a man already so deeply marked by the Web. Better to eliminate the risk altogether.

He was either a servant of the Web attempting to manipulate her, or a victim looking for help. Either way, his fate was inevitable, and she had found it best to avoid those who had come in contact with that particular entity.

Even if it meant a bit of slight intervention every once in a while.

“Erm, Miss Robinson?” a voice asked. Gertrude looked up to see Martin Blackwood from the Library peeking through the doorway. “Hi, sorry, sorry. I’m really, _really_ sorry to interrupt, but—“

“Martin, perfect timing,” she announced. “Could you escort Mr. Sims to the Institute lobby?”

Martin glanced over at a very giddy looking Statement giver, and his face immediately flushed. “Oh! S-sure! Um, come along then.”

Martin led him away from her office, chirping questions at the man about his name and how he liked his tea.

Gertrude closed her office door and let her head drop into her hands with a groan.

Jonathan Sims had been smiling as he walked away.

She neglected to mention the spider webs threading through his hair. She didn’t think he would appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/636807374281293824/its-polite-to-knock)  
> Art for this chapter can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/636807393536360448)


	2. Cup Of Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “S-so,” Martin said, with just an edge too much of false cheer, “what do you do for a living?”
> 
> “Web development,” Jon replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin’s design is based on the design by [the-eldritch-it-gay](https://the-eldritch-it-gay.tumblr.com/post/622016931090890752/sorry-if-someone-made-this-joke-already-and-also)

At this rate, Martin was going to wear a hole in his shoe if he kept up bouncing his leg so aggressively. 

He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, inhaling the mixture of chai and matcha that the barista had made. She had shot him a sympathetic look when she handed it to him. How was he supposed to know that the “surprise” in “Chai Surprise” was a crime against nature?

He took another sip of the abomination as he waited for his date to show up. It was nearly one-thirty, five minutes _after_ they were meant to meet, which did not bode well for the anxiety churning in his stomach.

Oh Christ, he was being stood up, wasn’t he? No... no that didn’t make sense. He had been so insistent that Martin get lunch with him, so it didn’t make sense for him not to show. Martin expected to be murdered, maybe, but his date being a no-show... he hadn’t planned for that.

He took off his foggy glasses and rubbed his bleary eyes back into semi-focus.

This was ridiculous, wasn’t it? He chats with some stranger online for two weeks and decides he’s in love. What a joke. God, he was stupid.

He checked his phone again. _1:29_. 

He sighed.

Maybe his date had shown up, but he had taken one look at Martin and run off. Martin almost felt guilty about not sharing any pictures of himself, but, then again, his date hadn’t shared any either. Hell, the bloke hadn’t even told Martin his _name_. 

Oh, Christ, Martin was stupid, wasn’t he? He had shown up to a date with a man who hadn’t even _tried_ to pretend like he wasn’t a bot, and he had _still_ fallen for it.

He should just pretend he went to a café by _himself_ , because that was _so_ much less sad than being stood up—

“Martin, is it?” a crisp, lilting voice asked.

Martin glanced up, and apparently he had been right because he was _immediately_ murdered on the spot.

Standing there was an impossibly handsome South Asian man with the darkest eyes Martin had ever seen peering at him curiously. He was wearing an embroidered white button-up, maroon slacks, and polished black Oxfords.

The outfit didn’t go together at all. Martin fell in love instantly.

Martin managed a stunned nod and the man grinned. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, before dropping gracefully into the opposite chair.

Holy _shit_ that guy was gorgeous. And unless this was all just some elaborate illusion the man was also _real_ and he had _smiled_ when he saw Martin.

Martin’s face was on fire, and he was suddenly thankful that his complexion hid his blushes enough not to broadcast his homosexual attraction out into the universe with enough force to tear a hole in the space-time continuum.

The man, either not noticing or not caring about Martin’s mental crash, continued, “I am dearly sorry for the wait, an acquaintance of mine wanted to speak with me and I found myself a bit...” —he paused— “... _stuck_.”

Martin choked on his drink. Not quite as dazed as he had been before, it finally hit Martin just how RP the man’s accent was. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the ridiculously formal messages he had been receiving, but it was an entirely new experience to hear it.

Jon tilted his head. “Are you alright, Martin?” Martin nodded, and his coughing fit calmed down after another five seconds.

“Yeah, uh, sorry sorry! I’m fine now.”

“Right,” the man announced, “well I do hope you know that my intention was never to arrive late, and I apologize.”

That was... _Christ_. Martin still wasn’t entirely convinced the man wasn’t a bot.

“Oh! It’s no trouble at all,” Martin assured him, not quite able to wipe the giddy grin from his face. “Honestly, I get it. I’ve been in that exact situation, trapped in a conversation with someone.”

The man’s impossibly dark eyes widened slightly. “Ah, yes, of course.” He fiddled with his earrings. “Trapped in... a conversation.” He cleared his throat and stuck out his hand. “Jon,” he said. “Apologies for only introducing myself now, but I’m very protective of my identity.”

“What?” Martin laughed. “Are you like a spy or something.”

Jon sighed wistfully, leaning back in his chair. “Unfortunately not, but a man can dream.”

Martin felt his already burning cheeks warming at just the flicker of Jon’s teasing smile. Martin swallowed, and tried very hard to stop grinning like a maniac. “Heh, I always wanted to be a poet.”

_WHAT_.

_ WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?! _

Jon’s face twisted in distaste. “You used to write poetry?”

“I still do, sometimes,” he blurted.

_ JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, MARTIN. _

“I’ve never been much of a fan,” Jon remarked, “I find it awfully drab.”

“Oh,” Martin replied.

_ GOD JOB, MARTIN, THE HOT GUY HATES POETRY. _

Jon took a moment to appraise him. He blinked at Martin very solemnly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Oh!” Martin squeaked, “...thanks?” His bemusement caused Jon to laugh, and a bit of the pressure in Martin’s chest dissipated. “Well,” he implored, “if poetry isn’t your cup of tea, why don’t I get you a proper one?”

_ OH HELL YEAH, BLACKWOOD, FUCKING SMOOTH. _

Jon hummed thoughtfully. “Oolong, if they have it. I don’t care much about the type.”

“R-right!” Martin stood abruptly. “I’ll be right back with it then.

Jon smiled softly along to some secret joke, and Martin practically sprinted inside.

He took a minute to collect himself before finding a place in line. It was then that he felt a nagging itch in the back of his mind. He felt like he recognized Jon from somewhere, but he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him. It’s not like Martin had any sort of social life, he the closest he had gotten was drinks with Tim and... and Sasha—but they hadn’t done that in nearly two years.

That thought was still nagging him as he handed Jon his drink.

_ His hands are so delicate. _

_ That’s a weird thing to think, stop it. _

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon sighed gratefully, a contented smile playing on his lips. He took a deep inhale of a tea that, to Martin’s knowledge, was practically devoid of smell. “This is much better.”

“Better than Keats?” Martin joked.

“ESPECIALLY better than Keats.”

Martin rolled his eyes and grinned, “If you say so.”

Jon shot him a glare without any real heat behind it.

“My goodness,” Martin gasped in faux-scandal, “you come _into_ my house—“

“This is a public—“

“ _Insult_ my taste in poetry—“

“Alright, alright,” Jon conceded in melodramatic defeat. “Have it your way.”

They chuckled, and then a silence settled between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t comfortable either, so Martin tried to break it.

“S-so,” Martin said, with just an edge too much of false cheer, “what do you do for a living?”

“Web development,” Jon replied, smiling that same secret smile to himself again.

“Ooh, that’s really interesting!”  


Martin forced himself to sound enthusiastic. To be honest, he didn’t know the first thing about computer software, that was always... That was always Sasha’s thing.

He missed her. Things were so tense with Tim, he was always...

“Are you alright, Martin?” Jon inquired and Martin lurched in his chair.

“Sorry!” Martin yelped. “Just got startled is all, head in the clouds.”

Jon blinked at him expectantly. Martin had no idea what he wanted.

“Um, Jon—“

“The Magnus Institute, right?”

Martin froze, an icy terror squeezing around his lungs. “How did you—?”

“You said you worked there, how is it?”

“Uh.” Had he told Jon about that? He couldn’t remember, but how else would Jon know?

“It’s uh...” Martin scratched nervously at the back of his head, jostling the coiled curls there. “Yeah, it’s... tense there. We don’t actually have a... a boss right now.”

Jon’s eyes brightened, and it was like pouring sunlight into a black hole. “Sasha James, yes?”

“How—“

“I saw her name on the news.” 

“...Oh. Yeah, yeah that... that makes sense.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully. “Sasha James, isn’t she on the run from the feds? Something about murdering an old man in her office?”

Martin tensed. “I think—I mean—I don’t think she killed anyone.”

Jon shrugged. “Personally,” he responded, “I think she’s innocent.”

“Oh!” Martin blurted. “Yeah! I—I think she is too!”

“Besides,” Jon continued, “if that really _was_ Jürgen Leitner then I rather think they ought to give her a promotion. Maybe the key to the city while they’re at it.”

“O-Oh!” That was certainly a... _different_ response than the one Martin was used to getting. “Not a fan of his?”

Jon chuckled, eyes downturned. “I tend to think poorly of old white men playing God.”

Martin grinned. “He WAS a right bastard, wasn’t he?”

They sat like that for nearly two hours, chatting and exchanging stories and gentle ribbing. Certain details about Jon’s life didn’t seem to make sense, but that was probably because the man stopped and started his stories at random, without any clear connecting threads.

His half-drunken tea had long gone cold, but Martin didn’t mind at all. He had taken to simply watching Jon in comfortable awe, his face warm and mouth stuck in a giddy smile. The man had been info-dumping about emulsifiers for almost fifteen minutes now, and Martin’s heart was beating in time to Jon’s rapid words.

It occurred to Martin that this had been the best day he had had in years.

He couldn’t tell if that thought made him happy or depressed.

Jon occasionally took breaks from his wild over-gesticulation to fiddle with his earrings, and Martin took a minute to move his gaze away from Jon’s raptured facial expressions to look at them.

They looked like some kind of upturned silver hand dangling on a delicate silver chain, with strings of small glass circles adhered to each finger.

The hands were strange though. They seemed to have a second thumb in place of the little finger, and three fingers in between. The rest of it was flattened glass circles, composed of an opaque black center, surrounded by rings of a light blue, then white, and ending in a final ring of royal blue.

_ What ARE those? _

They almost looked like...

Like _eyes_.

_Oh_ , Martin realized with a sickening jolt, His jewelry was _eyes_.

An ugly laugh clawed its way up his throat.

“...Martin?” Jon asked cautiously, still playing at his lie like he didn’t know _exactly_ what he was doing.

“Should’ve known it was too good to be true,” Martin barked, choking on a fit of delirious giggles. “Y’know, you’re not even that good at lying about it, really, I was just so...” 

_Starstruck_.

Martin’s laughter soured. “Never mind,” he huffed.

Jon, or whatever he was, seemed to deflate. “Martin...” he said, his eyes crinkling in what had to be a mockery of sadness. “I don’t—I’m not—“

“Save it,” Martin snapped. “I should’ve known anyways, you don’t even look human.”

“I... don’t?”

“Besides,” Martin pressed on, “you’re pretty obviously serving the Eye—“

“I’m am most certainly _not_ ,” Jon stated, with enough conviction to give Martin pause. His eyes widened and he stammered, “I mean—I’m not—I don’t know what—“

“But you do know what it is,” Martin finished, bluntly.

It wasn’t a question.

Jon grimaced awkwardly. “Uh, yes.”

“Well then,” —Martin placed his palms on the table— “explain all the eyes.”

Jon took a moment just to squint at him. “Martin, do you not know what the Eye of Evil is?”

“Uh, yeah? I literally work for it—“

Jon shook his head. “No, no, not the Watcher, the Eye of Evil.”

“Uh… nope.”

“You can Google it if you want to, but I promise you I’m not here on your God’s sinister commands—“

“It’s not my God,” Martin grumbled, fiddling with the crucifix under his shirt.

“Yes, uh, what I mean to say is—“ Jon sighed and planted his face directly in his palms. “I’m just Muslim, Martin, not some spooky cryptid.”

“Oh,” Martin said dumbly, because how the hell else do you respond to that. “Uh, that was... I shouldn’t have... Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” His face broke into a small nervous grin. “And before you ask, the hands aren’t some marking of Viscera, they’re just Khamsas. And these” —he gestured at the eyes— “are eyes of evil. They stare back at the Eye _of_ Evil, intimidate it, keep me safe. It’s all just wards, nothing...” —he grimaced, like the words tasted awful in his mouth— “ _...Spooky_.”

Martin’s mind finally caught up with Jon’s words, just in time for him to feel deeply embarrassed. “Oh my God, I am _so_ , so sorry. That was so _rude_ , and insensitive of me, I shouldn’t have—“

Jon held up a hand. “Calm down, it’s alright. Given your working environment, I can hardly fault you for being... jumpy,” he finished.

A beat of tense silence hung between them.

“Sooo,” Martin offered, “I’m guessing you don’t _actually_ work in web development.”

“Oh, no, that part was true.”

Martin buried his hand in the part between his hair and took a deep breath. “ _WHOO_ , okay.” He clapped his hands together, buzzing with manic energy. “But you _are_ an avatar, yeah?”

Jon scoffed, “Hardly.”

Martin barked out another laugh. “Well _excuse_ me for assuming that Mr.” —he imitated Jon’s voice— “ _I-don’t-serve-‘Viscera’-how-dare-you-imply-that-I-do_ —“

Jon stood abruptly, catching Martin off guard. “Martin,” he said, “this date has been lovely and I do truly hope to see you again, but I’m afraid I have urgent business to attend to.”

“What—“

Before Martin could fully comprehend what was happening, Jon was already out of sight.

“Oh, bloody Christ,” Martin groaned. “This has got to be the weirdest date I’ve ever been on—Oh, hello there, friend! What are you doing here?” Martin cooed at the small brown garden spider that had crawled onto his hand.

The spider waved its pedipalps at him and Martin laughed. “Your legs tickle, you know that?” he sighed wistfully. “Guess it’s just you and me, huh, since my date’s off... probably terrorizing someone with his trust fund accent.”

The spider tapped its pedipalps on Martin’s hand. “You know the weirdest part?” Martin admitted to it. “I think I still want to see him again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/636982634358226944/chapter-2-is-up)
> 
> The next chapter will be up as soon as I finish the accompanying art.


	3. Woven and Weaved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha froze, tension shooting up her spine. She jolted, tearing open the thin scabbing over her neck. Sasha squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want the Eye to get any sort of enjoyment out of this.
> 
> “Oh dear,” it mused, “Mother was right, I do have terrible manners.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> Panic Attacks  
> Self-Blame  
> Vague Descriptions of Injury  
> Paranoia  
> Low Self-Esteem

Sasha stumbled out of Elias’ office and took in the faces staring back at her. She was met with a wall of eyes, always those damned eyes, looking at her with anger, hatred, disgust, and resignation.

Daisy was staring at her with that same predatory bloodlust, Melanie looked ready to stab her and _Tim_... Tim refused to meet her eyes.

Somehow that one hurt the most.

She stumbled into her office, closed the door just a bit harder than she needed to, and collapsed bodily into her chair.

She was going to fucking cry.

She just wanted, selfishly, for someone to hold her, to lie to her tell him everything was okay.  


She Knew she didn’t deserve it.

She gasped for breath, dangling over the edge of another panic attack. She gripped the the arm of her chair, the only thing keeping her from falling, _falling_ —

Sasha grabbed the tape recorder, whirring away, enjoying this, listening always _listening_ —

She dove under the desk and curled up in the comforting dark. No one could see her in the dark. But it was too dark down here and _she_ couldn’t see, couldn’t _see_ —

_ Am I human, Elias? _

She heard footsteps pause in front of her office and the door creaked open and someone was coming for her, they wanted to hunt her, _kill_ her—

“Sasha.” Tim’s voice was so accusatory these days, every word bit like a scowl. “Are you even in here?”

Breathe catching in her throat, she held herself stock-still. Her wife eyes fixed on the shoes approaching with tiny shockwaves across the floorboards and coming to a stop.

She didn’t want him to see her like this, weak and afraid and pathetic.

He leaned down to look at her. Sasha watched his face twist from concern to sadness to that familiar, impersonal anger that tore her heart open and left it to bleed out on the floor. 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, you’re just hiding down here?” A sharp laugh cut it way up his throat. His laughter was always mirthless these days. She had done that to him. “So what, you just hide from us again, away from all your responsibilities and all the blame just like _always_ —“

She was breathing too fast, but she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She was falling and she couldn’t find the ground, just falling and falling into an abyss of nothingness and everything and—

Tim stood up and left, and she was all alone again. It was cold and it hurt. Better to be alone in the empty than to have people too close, too close and touching and cutting and bruising and _hurting_ —

She clenched her injured hand, and it burned, it was agony but it was grounding, reminding her that she was still human enough to _hurt_ to _bleed_ —

“Oh dear, aren’t you just a poor thing,” a voice cooed.

Sasha froze, tension shooting up her spine. She jolted, tearing open the thin scabbing over her neck. Sasha squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want the Eye to get any sort of enjoyment out of this.

“Oh dear,” it mused, “Mother was right, I do have terrible manners.”

She bit her lip harder enough to stifle a whimper and tasted copper spread heavy over her tongue.

She didn’t recognize that voice, but she Knew down to the marrow of her bones that the voice was _not_ human.

It locked the door with a _click_.

_Oh god._ She couldn’t handle this a fourth time, she couldn’t she couldn’t she couldn’t.

“Oh, hush, slow your breathing.”

And she did. Her lungs—rapidly inflating and deflating—seized. And then she started to breathe again, slow, steady breaths that she could not control. She felt invisible threads wrapped down her throat, taking control of her lungs.

A profound, icy terror seized every cell in her body. She had no control of her lungs, but _it_ did, it could squeeze her lungs closed and she would suffocate in the dark, alone and afraid of no one would even care. They would all just be relieved. There was no one who would miss her and it was her own fault. 

She had pushed everyone away, drowning in paranoia and delusion and stalking her _friends_ while she let that _thing_ pretending to be Rosie get closer and closer to her.

She wanted desperately to be suffocating, to allow her panic to escape her lungs, which kept breathing at that steady, torturous rate.

There was a sound like skittering, and Sasha found she could not move, or speak, or open her eyes.

Oh God, she couldn’t open her eyes.

She wanted to beg, to plead that even though she didn’t deserve to live, she knew she didn’t, she _wanted_ to. She didn’t want to die, she was terrified of it.

She didn’t want to suffocate alone in the dark and become another _fucking_ mystery for Elias to file away in that dusty archive. She didn’t want to exist here forever.

She... She...

An arm hooked under hers and tugged with such sickly sweet tenderness that it _ached_. 

She wanted nothing more than to scream. 

She was dragged the scant few centimeters into the light and it danced in front of her eyelids, highlighting the spider silk beneath them in sickening lines of silvery-white.

She was pulled up and she was going to _fall_ , she was going to fall again and she was going to keep falling—

Her head was rested on something sharp and bony, but it felt wrong, somehow. Like the bones were on the outside.

A shudder went down her spine as something—like a hand with fingers far too long—ran gently through her matted and disheveled hair, cleanly pulling through her tangled braids that had long since started to fall apart. 

Georgie had done them for her just two days ago, but a combination of being dropped for an impossibly long time at terminal velocity and been shoved violently through a forest filled with sharp sticks and brambles had left them frizzy and undone.

She wished she could say she had shuddered out of fear, but the touch was so gentle and she was so, so touch-starved.

She wanted nothing more, right now, than to be held.

It began to speak to her in those same soothing tones and it undid the remnants of her braids and massaged her scalp, sore from Daisy grabbing her by the hair to cut the switchblade into her throat.

Her brain found comprehension in its words after only a minute or so.

“—understand, I’m sure. In fact, I’m really not meant to be here, but I’m sure Mother will allow me this. She does want you alive and well—as much as anyone in your state can be. Perhaps she pulled me along in this direction, and I simply hadn’t noticed her careful handiwork,” it mused, as long, nimble fingers parted her hair into sections and began to redo the nearly two dozen braids it had taken out.

“I’ll admit,” it continued, “I was a bit preoccupied at the time, but I do wonder exactly how many of my strings she is pulling at this very moment. It would be taboo to saw the thought frightens me, but... we all have our phobias.”

Sasha let out a wordless hum.

“I was on a date, you know,” the voice mused, continuing to stroke gently through the undone sections of hair. “But I had to end it a bit early, pull a few strings in your favor.”

Her head was stuffed with lead and swimming, caught in a daze that felt like floating and drowning at the same time, She didn’t understand who or why or how but she felt guilty for disturbing the creature holding her so tenderly, not when she didn’t deserve any of it.

She swallowed drily and small whimper escaped from her throat.

“Oh, hush, hush,” it soothed, “cease yourself, you will be alright.”

There were arms around her waist, holding her and rocking her gently, but there were also two sets of fingers carefully combing through and weaving her hair.

She wasn’t prepared her another two to curl around her wrist just as something  pricked her neck.

She let out a small, panicked sound, but it simply hushed her. “Hush now, be calm.”

And she was. A wave of pleasant calm washed over her, a cooling balm to soothe her feverish soul.

She allowed herself to drift away as threads wove in and under her skin, tugging at her wounds and forming a soft, protective layer. _To protect from infection_ she Knew.

Those two hands drifted from injury to injury, hushing and soothing and stitching her broken skin back together.

It paused after finishing with the small, open sore on her ankle. The two hands retreated, only for one of them to reappear to support her back while the curled around her face, the fingers meeting at the back of her head.

She didn’t want to think about it.

It tilted her head back, and she flinched violently in it’s grip.

Its fingers were _sharp_ , and what if it finished the job, finally cut her open and bled her like a game animal, just like Daisy said she would. Torturing her with a moment of comfort only to taste the sweeter fear of loss and betrayal.

“Apologies, Miss James,” it said, sounding truly mournful, “but Mother needs you well enough to kill me.”

The words were static in her head, and she simply resigned herself to stop fighting as sharp fingers tugged threads through her flesh.

Cradled in an impossible hold, head resting against a leg that felt so _profoundly_ wrong, with sharp, cold hands stitching her skin like fabric, Sasha felt herself drifting off.

The pain and the fear gone, she could feel the heavy weight of exhaustion down into the marrow of her weary, aching bones.

Her eyes held shut by spider silk, she allowed the darkness to cradle her in a new embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/637250237054992384/woven-and-weaved)
> 
> Next chapter is Jon’s POV


	4. A Guest For Mr. Bouchard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should be grateful for serving Mother’s purpose. Maybe his sacrifice would finally, _finally_ make Her proud of him.
> 
> Male spiders were always meant to give themselves up to die, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter:
> 
> Self-Esteem Issues  
> Suicidal Thoughts  
> Abusive Parental Figure(s)  
> Arachnophobia  
> Suffocation  
> Body Horror  
> Mental Torture  
> Themes of Self-Harm

Jon left the Archivist—who had looked stressed even in unconsciousness—with her head propped against his coat. He would not need it any longer.

As he walked towards the office, a sinking dread settled in his stomach. He did not feel as honored as he should. Instead, it felt like marching towards his own execution.

He tried to find that sense of fulfillment that his siblings all seemed to have, but found only fear, churning unpleasantly in his stomach.

He should be grateful for serving Mother’s purpose. Maybe his sacrifice would finally, _finally_ make Her proud of him.

Male spiders were always meant to give themselves up to die, after all.

He could not be selfish, so narcissistic to think that he was more important than Mother, when he was worth nothing at all.

He could not be selfish. He would complete his task for Her.

He would not be selfish.

He didn’t want this. He wanted to stop.

_Mother will help you, Mother will ease you of control, Mother will ensure you are useful._

He could feel Her in every spiderweb, in every silken thread that nestled inside his skin and guided him forward.

He had no reason to be afraid, for he was being useful. Mother would finally be proud of him if he could just do this for Her.

He curled his arms around himself, fingers hooking together behind his back.

_I don’t want this._

He could not be selfish, to even think such thoughts was shameful. Mother had given him a purpose, life, _everything_ and he had the arrogance to defy Her.

He did not want to die in agony, and it was selfish, and shameful, and he was so lucky that Mother was merciful enough to give a pathetic, useless thing like him a purpose.

He could not flee— _he did not want to_ —and even if he could escape this great honor he would not escape punishment. He had never escaped Her punishment, as he knew he deserved it.

She would wrap him in webs and skittering legs for all of eternity, and he would be useless, surrounded by strings he could not pull.

He knew there was no one pitying enough to save him. He thought Anna might have, once. But he was not like Anna. Anna had proven herself useful. Anna had left her childish fear behind. Anna did not dread Mother’s gifts. Anna was not selfish, not like him.

Anna was Mother’s favorite.

His blood was baptized in shame, and when Mother bestowed upon him Her orders his expression of reverent joy had been merely a mask, concealing his cold, shameful terror.

Jon had already failed Her so many times, disobedient and twisting her instructions. After all his failures, he knew there was no home for him to return to, no home that would ever accept him.

He should be thankful of Mother’s mercy, for allowing a pathetic, undeserving failure like him to die.

He deserved so much worse, but Mother was merciful, so She would allow him to have his secrets torn from his skin, and lies and twisted deceit unraveled to leave him weak and hollow, afraid and pliant, a perfect meal for the Archivist.

Maybe the Archivist would thank him. He hoped she didn’t. He could think of no worse torture than the shame of someone as worthy as her debased herself by offering praise he had never deserved.

_I’m scared._

There was no need for him to be. Anna would probably feed Lady for him, so the only other purpose in his life would be taken care of. He was not needed any longer, and so it would be selfish of him to cling to existence.

He wanted to see Her again, if only to apologize for always failing Her, for offering comfort towards the Archivist when his unneeded touch did nothing but containment, for being so incomprehensibly selfish, to go against _everything_ Mother had asked of him, to reject everything She had given him to go on a... a _date_. With an Archival assistant, no less! 

His stomach curdled with shame just thinking about it. He did not deserve a fate as kind as this one.

He would not be selfish.

He would do as Mother asked.

He would not question Her.

He unfurled his fingers from around himself and straightened his back, jagged bones cracking as they warped and stretched and lengthened.

His fingers wrapped twice around the brass knob as he twisted it open.

It would have been nice to see Georgie one last time. He missed her. He missed the Admiral.

He stepped through the doorway.

Immediately, the crushing weight of being _Watched_ clung to his intestines and _pulled_. Two gleaming twists of gilded emerald fixed deeply into a part of him that felt so agonizingly personal, feelings so deep and hidden and he wanted nothing more to boil himself in ink if it meant covering them up against the Watcher’s ceaseless gaze.

And still, Jon did not flinch.

Jonah Magnus had already Known the servant’s arrival—had known from the moment Jon stepped into his threshold trailing webs and manipulation and tangled puppet strings.

“Hello, Weaver,” the man, Magnus, said, folding his hands neatly to rest on his desk.

The room was bright, sterile, and old. It felt wrong; it itched under his skin. It towered over him with a gaze made of pure hunger, the edges of its teeth grazing his skin, a twitch away from devouring him whole.

Jon stepped towards the desk.

“Not bothering with pleasantries anymore, your like? I expected your Mother to at least raise you with some _manners_.”

The words cut into his mind in jagged slashes. He was shameful, allowing Mother to take the blame for his own failing. Mother had been perfect, Mother had done all She could, it was Jon who had failed.

His failures would not tarnish Mother for much longer.

Jon was not a skilled puppeteer, but he was still far, _far_ better than Magnus.

He flicked his joints in movements so tiny even a servant of the Watcher would not be able to See.

Without a word or any show of intentions, Jon wound the last of his invisible threads into place.

Jonah sighed, “Is there something you want, _or—Oh.”_ Magnus’ chosen face split into a predatory grin. “She’s getting sloppy, isn’t she,” he mused, his voice dripping with saccharine amusement. “Sending the weakest of her children, what ever was she thinking?” Magnus thrummed his fingers against the polished mahogany of his desk. “You simply _reek_ of disposability. Did she send you here just to die?”

Jon didn’t respond, but the faintest twitch in a finger gave away the answer.

Magnus laughed, a sound stuffed full of arrogance and self assurance. “Do you ever tire of being a sacrifice, Jonathan?”

Jon took another step forward, only to freeze in place at the sensation of cold, polished mahogany against his fingertips, tapping one by one.

“It’s almost pitiable,” Magnus sighed, “sending a Weaver afraid of his own webs directly—To— _Me_.”

Jon yanked his wrists in six different directions, and as spiders and webs poured from the ceiling Jon realized far too late what Magnus had meant.

A sound like pressurized air and frantic clicking tore itself from Jon’s throat, as a sensation magnified over and over onto each set of limbs crashed down into him. He writhed and twisted as each spider was felt six times over, an endless torture of burning, pointed legs inching and biting and crawling over him as he clawed desperately at the phantom touch that existed in too many places at once over every inch of his being, crawling in his stomach, twisting webs around his very _atoms_.

Jon tried to gasp for desperate breath only to feel his airways sealed with thread as more and more spiders crawled down his throat, choking him under the weight of a thousand searching, suffocating legs.

In a desperate move, Jon yanked the webs from Magnus’ throat, feeling the thread and spiders bloating his trachea release their pressure as they sprayed from Magnus’ now unobstructed mouth.

The man did not look even the smallest amount afraid. If anything, he seemed at most _irritated_ , another pest coming to bother him in the middle of his workday. Jon was insignificant. Small.

He could not silence the man without choking himself, couldn’t harm him without feeling the same sensation dozens of times over. The spiders were still there, still crawling, and Jon wanted to hand himself over to the Ringmaster and beg her to remove his itching skin.

It was only after he wheezed for stolen, panicked breath, that Jon realized his mistake. 

Suddenly, he remembered why it was so crucial that he prevented Magnus from speaking to him.

“My, my, aren’t you simply _pathetic_.”

Jon was overwhelmed with a million sensations, with the fear and panic and shame of thousands of people, with spiders _crawling_ and thread sticking to his skin, enough to bind his flesh down to the bone and pull tighter and _tighter_ when he tried to move.

His lips were moving silently over tearfully apologies, shaping frantic desperate pleas of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry._

He wanted to beg, but he didn’t know which God to pray to.

“You understand that your Mother has never _actually_ loved you, yes?” Magnus leaned forward onto the desk, crushing spiders as he went. “And how could She, you aren’t even worth the blood on her teeth. She made you the way you are because only _you_ , Jonathan, only you could be arrogant enough to think you’ve made anyone’s life better. You haven’t, but you already know that, yes? You know that every single person you’ve ever loved or touched has shriveled and died from the poison in your fingertips?”

And suddenly Jon _Knew_ _._ He Knew just how much Mother hated him, how he had failed Her, why he deserved Her hatred.

Magnus spoke and his words _hurt_ , a sharp cutting pain lanced with Knowledge, the undeniable truth of Jon’s failures, or his disappointments, or how there was not a single person, being, or entity that had ever been better for his interaction or existence, neither as Jon or as a Weaver. He Knew all the pain and annoyance and anger and guilt that he had caused, the Knowing seeping into his veins like the venom in his teeth.

He Watched the memory of Gertrude’s disinterest, how clearly the light had been missing from her eyes, how he had been distracted and weak and... and _pathetic_. He Watched as that painfully human face broke apart into disgustingly grateful smile, as he allowed himself to seal his own fate because he was too desperate and too stupid to _think_ for once in his worthless life.

He had hurt Georgie the worst. She had tried so hard to help him and he had refused her care and simply _leeched_ like he was always born to do. She had never deserved that, and he had still sent an Archivist to her front door.

Jon had always been called manipulative, and they had always been right about him. 

Monster.

Pathetic.

 _Worthless_.

And now here he was, too weak to do what Mother had asked of him. Probing himself worthless and incapable, worse than disposable. He had failed Her, again and again, and now he was failing Her again, again, _again_. 

_No_ , he would not fail Mother any more than he already had. And what was stopping him? Certainly nothing physical. No, the only barrier was one Jon had decreed himself, something as embarrassingly insignificant as his own comfort.

Jon had sunken to many lows, but this had to be the lowest. What, did he expect to be pampered? To waste Mother’s faith in him because he didn’t want any silly pain or _discomfort_.

It was beyond shameful. It was damning.

He would not be selfish.

“I had alternate plans for you, Jonathan, when I first spotted you starving and festering. Then my Archivist decided once again to disrupt my—“

Jon lunged forward and the webs closed back in. Magnus was caught mid-phrase and speechless, only for the spiders waiting so patiently for Jon’s orders to swarm and weave and pin.

Phantom wrapped down Jon’s throat and that itching, that _itching_ that no agony could ever compare too crawled and bubbled under his skin.

But his pain was as insignificant as he was, so Jon had no reason nor excuse to stop.

Maybe it was adrenaline or Mother or even the idea of an end to his miserable existence that drew Jon forward even as his body shook and twitched fan convulsed with more sensation layered on sensation that would be impossible to feel if not for the echos across every limb Jon possessed.

A face contorted in what was finally, _finally_ genuine fear, Magnus could only watch as Jon lifted the delicate silver spoon—Anna had given him it years ago in exchange for doing her hair the way Mother liked—and brought it down with a sickeningly wet _thud._

Jon was finally useful for something, and the feeling was a unique kind of excruciating euphoria.

It was agony, the sensation of digging the sharp metal into his own socket eight times times over as he carved into Magnus. He shoved the dull blade of the spoon into the optic cord to tear it roughly in half and felt that molten agony in seven more places than Magnus. 

Jon silently begged the Archivist would be quick to kill him once she had torn him apart. But that was not important right now.

With a scream that should have been garbled by the phantom webs sticking in his throat, Jon dug the spoon into the man’s other socket and ripped out the other one of those unnaturally green eyes—the ones who had promised him so much and helped so little—feeling the optic nerve snap with a flick of his wrist.

And it was over. Jon barely managed to drop them into the preservative jar—those two untouched eyes with shattered optic nerves—before his feet caved under him.

Mother had never hurt him like this before, but She was fair, and so he must have deserved this.

He pitched forward, the two arms wrapping tightly around the jar to shield it crunched and cracked against the floorboards when he fell.

The sharp, jolting pain of that did not make it through the haze of his battered mind, did not register along with the dull, thumping ache in his blood.

Jon was so grateful for Mother. He liked the Archivist, and he would make himself useful for her. It would be penance for his worthlessness. He would drown in euphoria that tasted like misery.

He would have preferred her assistant instead. Looking into those dark eyes, he could die happy.

That was a nice thought. If an extremely selfish one.

_I wish I could see him again._

He breathed deeply and refused the insistent darkness that Terminus poured into his mind and down his throat.

He was not entirely useless yet, and he would not be allowed to die until he was.

He should be honored.

He would not be selfish.

A knock on the door. A voice: disoriented and urgent. _The Archivist._

Jon tugged a thread and the door unlocked with a _click!_ A pause, and the knob turned.

Jon dragged his crackling limbs off of the floor and rose to his full height. He was tired. He ached. It would all be over soon.

He would not be selfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/637414780103196672/a-guest-for-mr-bouchard)
> 
> The next chapter will be Jon’s statement, and then I promise there will be comfort.  
> (Also for anyone genuinely anxious about Jon, there will be no Major Character Death in this story.)


	5. Mother’s Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Statement of...” Sasha whispered. “Statement of the entity formerly known as Jonathan Sims, regarding... itself. Statement begins.”
> 
> Mr. Spider took a deep breath, smiled, and began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-Esteem Issues  
> Suicidal Thoughts  
> Abusive Parental Figure(s)  
> Arachnophobia  
> Suffocation  
> Body Horror  
> Themes of Death  
> Implied/Referenced Torture  
> Themes of Self-Harm
> 
> So, you know how spiders make GREAT parents...

Sasha had woken up to the Eye’s incessant shrieking, choking her under such pure, certain Knowledge that something was _WRONG_. Something was wrong and she needed to get to Elias’ office immediately or something very, _very_ bad would happen.

Sasha was lifted by strength that did not belong to her and she stumbled out of her office, ignoring the looks of concern and glares from her coworkers.

She ran up the stairs much faster than her twisted ankle should I have allowed, even if it was now coated in a layer of something stretchy and silky.

She rounded the corner in time to hear a scream that she didn’t recognize and then a crunching _thump_.

Sasha frantically twisted the doorknob, only for the door to remain locked, locked, _locked!_

She heard a click, felt the pressure give, and wrenched the door open with a _SLAM!_

She froze.

The room was draped in a heavy layer of delicate threads, criss-crossing over and around each other in an expert display of intricate chaos. It wasn’t the threads that stopped her, not even the persistent black spiders weaving their way in and out of every crevice.

Sasha only froze when she saw _what_ exactly was puppeteering all of those webs.

_Shit._

The figure towered over her, three sets of arms jutting out from its shoulders and torso, twisting and weaving as eight beetle-black eyes stared endlessly at and through her.

It was tall and wiry, as if each limb had been plucked my the skin and stretched thinly out across the bone. A long wave of silvery-white hair brushed down and over its shoulders, a long tangle of curls crawling with spiders as they wove into it new threads of silk.

And it... it _wasn’t_ human, maybe it never had been. She couldn’t imagine this creature being anything other than what it was: a twisted, mangled pile of limbs that cracked and popped and spun in directions the joints should not have been able to go.

Petrified, her gaze traced the whirling patterns of fine, brittle grey-black hair that covered every inch of whatever that _thing_ had in place of skin.

It wore a mismatched combination of garish reds and blacks in a vintage suit that seemed to fit too tight and too loose at the same time, overcoat discarded back in her office and hat placed delicately on its crown.

It turned its head with a series of cracking vertebrae, met her eyes with _all of his_ , and _laughed_. It was a whirring click, the scream of a teakettle, the fastidiously crafted glee of someone who felt nothing at all.

“Hello, Miss James,” it trilled.

Sasha Knew whose voice that was.

She wanted desperately to ask it questions, to demand answers from a creature so twisted and horrific that had held her with such delicate care...

But her lips would not obey her, not her jaw or her throat or even her lips.

She could only stare at the creature, begging the Eye to help her understand this creature beyond comprehension.

It breathed in her fear, her bemusement, and sighed in deep contentment. “I’m so glad you’ve finally arrived. And right on time!” Then, proudly, “Mother will be very pleased.

“W—“ The words stuck in her throat. “ _Who are you?_ ”

It gave a full-body shiver and closed it’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not meant to tell you that quite yet—“

“ _Who—Are— **You**?_” she grit.

It hissed in pain, but still said nothing. Taking a moment to collect itself, it allowed the mask to fit snugly back over its visage and its intentions. “Now, now, Archivist,” it announced, “we will get to that, I assure you. But first, the simple matter of Mr. Bouchard.”

It shifted to the side and she Saw, she Saw...

She slapped her hand over her mouth, stumbling back in blind panic, her back slamming against the wall.

Elias’ corpse sat in the chair, face twisted in inhuman agony, skin bloated with spider bites, web pouring down his throat and spiders crawling in and out of his mouth, his ears, his nose, his tear ducts and the _sockets_.

Hollow, bloody eye sockets with the skin around them torn and scratched and shredded.

She shoved her palm as tight as she could make it against her mouth, breathing rapidly through her nose.

She looked to the long, claw-like fingers of its hand and found them coated in a layer of blood and fleshy gore and—

She was going to be sick. _Oh God, oh God_.

Tears traced paths down her cheeks but the Eye wouldn’t let her stop _Watching_.

If Sasha hadn’t read Statement after Statement about how skilled Web avatars were at pretending to be everything they were not, at tying everyone up in their webs and deceiving the poor fools foolish or unlucky enough to trust them...

Then she might have mistaken the look in it’s eyes—it’s many, many _eyes_ —as softening in concern.

“Here,” it said, holding out a jar gripped gingerly in two arms, so long that it could stand nearly six feet away and not even fully unbend its elbows. God, it had to be nearly seven feet tall.

Against all rational judgment, she dragged her gaze to the jar.

It was filled with clear, pale green preservatives and floating in that liquid were two...

Two green eyes.

She really should have put the pieces together the moment she saw Elias’ corpse.

In some mockery of reassurance, it explained, “I figured this would save you some trouble. Mother’s plans have changed and ‘Elias’ has ceased to be a headache anyone needs to humor. He’s alive, if you’re concerned. The Institute’s people are in no danger.”

“I—“ She didn’t know what to do with that information. But if this creature really had stopped Elias—had _saved_ them—then...

“Uh. That’s, ah...” She cleared her throat. “Thanks,” she croaked, her throat painfully dry. It pretended to brighten at her voice. “I think. ...I feel like I’m supposed to Know you.”

“You were,” it confirmed with a nod, its neck bending in two more places than it should have been able to. “In the original Design, anyway. Annabelle tells me you came across a statement I left here some time ago.” Its eyes took on a far-off, rueful look. “Before I became another missing person; a dangling loose thread.”

Knowing crashed into her mind, a tidal wave of information and fear. “One of the Leitner statements,” she realized. “The one with the children’s book.”

“Yes,” it replied solemnly. “I was already working at the Fanshawe Institute by then. Gertrude arranged it. Still not sure how she caught wind of me while I was—well, jobhunting may be too generous a term—or how she recognized Mother’s mark. Mother’s _Claim_. However she did it, she steered me away from here.” It paused thoughtfully, and tapped against its lip with a too-long, too-sharp finger. “I _am_ sure Mother—or the Web, as you call it—was what convinced her not to go the pragmatic route and burn my flat down during my employment--Mother was determined not to waste me.”

Sasha couldn’t breathe. “You...” A hand to it’s torso, the creature bent itself nearly in half to get closer to her eye level. She still had to crane her neck. You’re Jonathan Sims. Aren’t you?”

That plastered smile wavered, eyes losing their careful precision for a moment. Collecting itself, the creature gave a small, crackling bow as if introducing itself properly.

“I was,” it said, sure at first, and then faltering. “I try to be as much as I can, but a lot of me has been rewritten.”

And there. The slightest crack in that impeccable mask, just enough to show a sliver of the genuine being beneath. “There are times I wish I’d gotten away as cleanly as Carlos Vittery did.”

Then that web-cracked mask crumpled to dust to reveal a new one, one of giddy glee and embroidered control. “But that wouldn’t have fed the Web nearly as much as this,” he sighed, almost wistfully. “It’s a fiend for arachnophobic avatars. Almost as much as it is for dramatic irony.”

It paused for effect, and then, like it was sharing a secret: “I have a story to tell, if you’d like a proper statement.”

Sasha swallowed drily. She didn’t know why she bothered to warn this creature, this monster that had killed and mangled and was no doubt lying to her about everything the Eye wouldn’t tell her. “That... has side effects, in person.”

It— _he?_ —laughed bitterly. “I know. But your nightmare would be an upgrade from the ones I have now.”

Webs twirling from its thirty fingertips, it arranged its limbs in an unnatural formation that she Knew perfectly matched the cover of one particular book.

“So,” the creature smiled, a twisted thing of fangs and woven deceit, “before we go any further. Hello Archivist.”

An arm reached up to tilt his hat chivalrously at her.

He fixed his octet of arachnid eyes to hers, and Sasha felt her breath catch in her throat.

“I’m Mr. Spider.”

Sasha reached her trembling hand into her bag to feel for a tape recorder, and just as she suspected one had appeared.

It was already humming, already whirring and spinning and hungry.

“Statement of...” Sasha whispered. “Statement of the entity formerly known as Jonathan Sims, regarding... itself. Statement begins.”

Mr. Spider took a deep breath, smiled, and began.

  
  


This shall be my final performance, so I do hope it is worth you time.

Oh good! I see your recorder has already begun running. You will want this on tape, I imagine, to listen to again later.

These Statements do take quite the toll on the listener, I’m afraid.

Apologies for any redundancy, you must understand that while the Watcher has already taken the statement of Jonathan Sims, it has not taken mine.

Like any good Statement, I will begin at, well, at the beginning! Likely sharing an unnecessary amount of personal details.

_Ahem_.

I was always a difficult child, how was it that Jonathan put it all those years ago?

Ah, yes.

A _deeply_ annoying child.

At the age of two, my father fell from a roof during a construction accident. He died immediately.

My mother’s condition deteriorated slowly over the course of several years, and inevitably, by the age of five, I was placed in the custody of my paternal grandmother.

I do not wish to give you the wrong opinion on my grandmother. She’s dead, of course, has been for nearly a decade now, but... _still_.

I do not think my grandmother hated me, or even overly disliked me. It was simply that she had already raised one child, and was no keen to so again. Additionally, I suspect my... _peculiar_ taste in literature did not do her fraught patience any favors.

The best way I can put it would be that I did not want to read anything similar to what I had read before. It nearly drove my grandmother mad, I imagine, for she could not understand why I refused to read books from the same author, or genre, or series. Even the ones I had immensely enjoyed.

Unfortunately, this left her in a bit of a dilemma; I was too curious for my own good, and when I was not reading, I would simply leave the house and walk in whichever direction until my endless curiously was satiated.

This became such a problem that my grandmother threatened to lock me inside my room if I wandered off again.

My grandmother, a resourceful woman, quickly found a solution for this particular problem. She would visit the corner store with a few cents to buy a stack of donated books.

It was nearly a perfect solution, although I was exposed to content quite a bit more graphic than I probably should have.

Nonetheless, it resolved matters for my grandmother, and I did not wander away again.

That is until the age of eight, when I came across _A Guest for Mr. Spider_ —which I will not bother detailing the contents of again.

All that is truly necessary for your understanding is that result of that particular excursion. You already know the fate of my tormentor—who I now know was named Alfie—and of my supposed escape. Now would probably be an astute time to mention that Mother can weave certain memories in a way that does not quite align with reality.

You see, Jonathan Sims was eight years old when he was eaten by a spider.

Although, perhaps ‘ _eaten_ ’ isn’t the correct word for it. He was wrapped in sickly sweet webbing that bit into his flesh like garrote wire and choked him of air, but he was not consumed in his entirety.

I am getting ahead of myself here. As my tormenter continued flipping page after page in swift, jerky moments, poor Jonathan Sims had become a spider, trapping an innocent fly into his web. He did not mean to, of course, but these things so often do not care about intention.

And so, invisible puppet strings wound around his skinny wrists, his nimble fingers, his fragile ankles, under his eyelids and around his flickering black irises.

And as he arrived at that doorsteps miles away from a location he could not remember beginning at, my tormentor reached the Leitner’s final page.

_ It’s Polite to Knock. _

And with two knocks that echoed against a door that seemed too thin and impossibly sturdy all at once, the door swung open with a _BANG!_ and a long arm—far longer than the arm of any creature that I—that Jonathan had ever seen before—shot out and claimed it’s prey. The young man was no more than a puppet yanked violently backward on an elastic string; The sharp _crack!_ of a spine snapping in two rang in the air.

Then noises, deep, wet squelching and terrified screamed and somewhere far away the dull _thump_ of a book landing too close to the door.

And the bloated Weaver was fed a meal that would have been enough, would have... but...

Ahem.

Minuscule translucent nearly slammed the door shut, only to stop against the worn hardback cover of that book, that _damned_ —the Leitner.

And Jonathan hid, hid so desperately beneath the porch in a small, trembling ball of sobs and terror, A frail heart pounding so desperately inside its little cage, a hand shoved over his mouth in a frantic attempt to stifle breathing that was already too fast and too loud.

I was terrified.

I mean—ah— _he_ was terrified.

Forgive me, Archivist. It would appear the Watcher and Mother do not enjoy collaborating on woven statements.

I shall continue as I was.

If the book had landed just centimeters to either direction, I have no doubt the door would have slammed and poor little Jonathan would be Marked, sure, but not Claimed by Mother.

He was not so lucky, I’m afraid. What is it that book had insisted?

_ Mr. Spider wants more. _

The door creaked back open.

Terror flooded Jonathan further than his mind could comprehend, I had never been so afraid, so terrified, I thought—I thought—I was left to curl up in a mess of snot and tears radiating fear like the most delicious meal Mother’s lackey had ever tasted.

It creeped down the porch stairs with legs that skittered with heavy taps and a shadow that cast over me bigger, bigger, impossibly bigger.

I—I covered my eyes in fear and after a few seconds I could not hear or see anything so perhaps I was safe it had left and it had not noticed me! And—And—And I opened my eyes and I—Saw— _it_.

A-and what’s that thing Anna likes to say? Once a spider reaches a certain size...

It’s not made entirely of _spider_ anymore.

It was glistening and bulbous and caked in chunks of flesh and sinew and I didn’t even have time to _scream_ before it—he—I—I found myself grabbed and _yanked_ forward into that doorway, that yawning abyss, everything spinning and weaving and twirling on an unfamiliar axis.

It smothered me in it’s arms, boney and wrong and covered in long, wiry bristles that gouged scratches into my skin as they attempted to flay me alive.

It strangled me in webs and I could only stare in horror at the faces I was surrounded by, all drained dry and empty and the Eyes filled with such pure anguist and fear. It have never felt quite as sick as I did in that moment.

The Weave opened its mouth and from it poured a syrupy liquid, boiling hot that singled and burned my flesh as I screamed in pain.

Spiders swarmed around my, crawling down my open mouth and into my throat, my _lungs_ as the boiling spread to my intestines in waves of agonizing torture.

And once I was begging, pleading, babbling,  _ Bismillaahir -Rahmaanir-Raheem. Qul 'a'oothu birabbil-falaq. Min sharri maa khalaq. Wa min sharri ghaasiqin 'ithaa waqab. Wa min sharrin-naffaathaati fil-'uqad. Wa min sharri haasidin 'ithaa hasad _ the creature paused in front of my and lifted a bristled arm in a touch like feather, a mockery of a soothing caress, and then...

It stopped.

I found myself lost and terrified, unable to comprehend my own trauma. I screamed and cried and sought out comfort from my grandmother who did not know how to offer it. I woke up in the middle of the night, screaming and begging and crying against the sensation of burning and boiling and strangling and spiders.

I quickly learned that my behavior would not be tolerated, and so I acted as though I had grown out of it.

I was simply hiding it better.

Mother concealed the details of my experience from me, as she does to all of her children. You are not privy to that information until you are worthy of it, so you are instead left with a certainty that whatever let you escape is looking for you, and once it finds you...

You will not escape it again.

That paranoia followed me for the rest of my life. It was in every grade, every academic activity that I poured my energy into in exchange of sleep and a social life.

By the time I found myself in Oxford, it is safe to say that I was not coping well with the added academic stress. I was rude, abrasive, unlikeable, and terrified. I would go insofar as to say that if not for Mother’s claim on myself, I would likely have been consumed by the Forsaken.

And with every phantom touch of legs, invasive, skittering spider legs I scratched, and scratched, and _scratched_ at my skin. That feeling of legs, so many skittering legs on my arms, my face, my neck and down my _throat_ , my _LUNGS_.

I kept my hair short for a while.

Then I met Georgie. Yes, your Georgie. No, it is not a coincidence.

Georgie had always been too forgiving of my faults, befriending the unstable mess that was Jonathan Sims and eventually asking him to move in with her.

Georgie would hold me while I screamed, while I thrashed, while I turned to filling my lungs with smoke and stomach with nicotine just to feel something and nothing at the same time.

Georgie saw the good in me, she clung to the happy moments like a sunflower following a dying sun.

_ Mr. Spider wants more. _

Then came the night when it all got too much. M-my mind was swirling and I couldn’t focus over the the pounding in my head or the ache in my bones or the clawing pain in my stomach, or—

Georgie had been the one to find me. It was the closest she had even come to feeling afraid.

I believe that was my worst act.

She stayed with me until I was released from the hospital. She listened to the doctors and nurses and collected the pamphlets on mental health services recommended to me. We went home. She sat me on the couch, and... and broke down into sobs.

She couldn’t be a part of my life anymore. It wasn’t fair to her to watch me fall apart over and over again, she couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t give herself away to me one piece at a time.

I understood. I carefully extracted myself from her life.

I never went to that counseling.

I tried to find a job, but with my life rapidly spiraling into untreated mental illness and instability and addiction it wasn’t two months before I found myself dropping out, and only three weeks later that I ended up homeless.

I could not cut my hair and so often the sensation of hair brushing against my collarbone reminded me of...

Well.

I have never been the most healthy of people. The chronic ache in my skin and my joints, my blackened lungs and a rapidly deteriorating mental state were not at all helped by malnourishment and dehydration.

That was when a man approached me. He introduced himself as Elias Bouchard and offered me a hand, all the while sharing at me with eyes that were such an unnaturally vibrant _green_.

Part of me figured he could be leading me away to murder me.

The other part didn’t really care.

Instead, he promised me everything I could have possibly asked for. He would offer me a job, a flat, and a stable salary if I only visited his Institute to ‘give my Statement.’ I did not think to ask how he knew I had one.

It was there that I met Gertrude Robinson, the woman who lied to me and knowingly sealed my fate.

I would hate her if she was not already dead. After that, what’s the point?

So I started my unusually long career at the Fanshawe Institute. Never heard of it?

That is to be expected.

I shall put it like this: if you were to combine your Research Department and Artifact Storage into one Institute, you would have the Fanshawe Institute.

If you have not already guessed—and I assume you already have, Miss James, as you appear quite intelligent—the Fanshawe Institute belongs to the Weavers.

And the Weavers belong to Mother.

I arrived only to be met with looks of resignation and disappointment, which my confrontational mind took to mean that they simply did not like me, for whatever prejudiced reasons they had.

It took my nearly a month to realize something was deeply wrong.

There always seemed to be new hires, transfers in and out. No one ever seemed to last more than a few months before disappearing. I chose to ignore this out of denial, but soon even I could not pretend that the artifacts warping and mutilating and consuming were not simply something to be _rationalized_ away.

And worst of all, I felt those _legs_ , always those legs crawling over, under my skin.

And... what is there left to say? I made friends only to watch each of them die in painful and lonely deaths with no one left to mourn them. Of course I tried to quit, of course I tried to leave, but you know how these things go.

Trapped.

A fly to a web.

There were two men that seemed to come and go, collecting items and dropping new ones off, never saying anything that meant anything in their ridiculously fake accents.

If there in one thing you should Understand about the Fanshawe Institute, something I did not realize until it was far too late—even if I hadn’t bound myself in silk and contract—is that the Fanshawe Institute is not a place of research and cataloguing. That is the Watcher’s job.

The Fanshawe Institute is place to store all the items that can be used to trigger events and twist the actions and lives and decisions and fates of every being under Mother’s control.

Which I regret to inform you is everyone.

There is a room there, behind a door we are never meant to open, filled with webs and shriveled corpses and bloated flesh. I was hiding and that was the room I found myself in, pressed against slimy, papery skin and _rot_ as that thing that used to be my friend promised to slither under my skin and make me just as _loved_ as he was.

The next day, my childhood Leitner found it’s way back to the hands of my division. One of us had to catalogue it—and by catalogue I mean read. We _are_ a glorified food farm, after all.

I knew the fate it led to, and I also knew that I would not let it have Nnendi or Brandy or... God, Yasmín. Not with her daughter, and...

And so I read that book finally, _finally_ to the end and...

I knocked.

When I found myself trapped by the spider that had haunted every fiber of my being from childhood to adulthood, I simply decided to give up.

As it turns out, Mother found that I matched the description far better.

And whatever did not match, she simply remade.

If you must know of my... _feeding habits_ , I suppose I can admit that I’ve never enjoyed frightening children. Their fear tastes too stale. Too... familiar.

And, well, I like to think I have a bit of soft spot for kids. Fragile and fleshy and not quite tainted with the crushing despair that comes with self-awareness.

No, no, it is _far_ more fun to toy with their parents, to allow the paranoia to build at the strange man who looks just slightly _off_ , dazzling their children with twisted—but ultimately harmless—displays while their parents find that they simply cannot say anything, can only smiled and nod and approve.

And should anyone knock on my door, well...

It’s only my nature to feed.

It looked at her expectantly, holding itself tense, too tense, minuscule trembling racking its form. Its eyes were wide and shiny after reliving a life of sadness and loneliness and betrayal and trauma.

Whatever that thing was, it was _not_ meant to be giving Statements.

“S... Statement ends,” Sasha breathed.

As if released from a spell, the invisible strings holding it upright snapped, and it collasped to the floor without any attempt to break its fall. As Sasha watched, it twisted and gasped and hissed in pain, twitching and writhing and spasming before it stilled, took a long, deep breath, and arranged its tangle of limbs gracefully around itself.

Sasha could not afford to feel pity for this, this _thing_ when it could so easily have been lying.

“ _Why are you here?_ ” she asked.

The creature grimaced and then smiled, but it was off, unnatural, more like the movements of a puppet then those freely chosen.

“I have come here, Archivist, to end you. I couldn’t do so, of course, without first removing the false king. But seeing as the experience has” —it hissed between its teeth— “taken a far larger toll on me than I had foreseen, I suppose it’s only fair that I make myself— _hah_ —useful. Take your fill. A meal on a platter for your Master.”

She stared at it, crumpled and pathetic-looking. “Are you asking me to kill you?” she asked, genuinely bewildered.

It groaned. “In so many words, I suppose. I do ask that you— _ah_ —do so quickly, Archivist, as I fear I may not be quite so sustainable after t-this body g-gives out.”

It stared up at her with a grimace disguised as a grin, and the eyes that met hers were wide and borderline manic. It looked...

_Desperate_.

She Knew that she wanted nothing more than to put this thing that had once been human out of its misery.

_ Do I Know, or do I... know? _

Her shoulders sagged and she huffed out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Even if she wasn’t human anymore, she couldn’t possibly be a monster, not when the monster in from of her looked so...

So...

_Human_.

Monterous.

“Statement of...” It winced in obvious pain. She tried to ignore it. “Statement of the entity formerly known as Jonathan Sims, regarding his time at the Fanshawe Institute. Statement... Statement...”

It’s head drooped down and she instinctively lifted its chin.

_ The hair’s actually kind of soft. _

It flinched, but lifted its gaze. And even as it stared at her with a face twisted in agony and terror—even with all of its glassy eyes streaming tears—it still looked so desperately grateful. For the touch or for the end, she didn’t know.

Somewhere, battered and bruised in her cracked moral compass, something would not allow her voice to finish the words.

The Eye was screaming at her to feed, FEED, to gorge herself on Knowledge even as she already felt strength and energy returning to her bones, warm and satiated. And something, something _tugged_ , insisting that she take what she wanted, it wasn’t human, she didn’t need to worry about it, it was...

Worthless.

“End recording,” she whispered, and the tape recorder turned off with a click.

Immediately, a sharpened hand grasped for her wrist, fingers scratching cuts the beaded with drops of blood.

What had once been Jonathan Sims looked at her in devastation. “ _No_ ,” it— _he_ begged, “no, no please! You can’t... You can’t do this to me—“

It crumpled in on itself and lost consciousness.

Sasha screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a lot longer than the others. Anyways, would you believe me if I told you the next chapter is mostly comedic?
> 
> Art for this chapter can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/637764749127450624/mothers-wishes-this-chapter-is-going-to-be-a-lot)


	6. Born To Be Loved, Made To Be Feared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha slammed into him, crushing him in a white-knuckled, trembling hug.
> 
> Shock was the only thing that kept him from wrapping his arms around her.
> 
> “Sash, what’s—“
> 
> “Oh _Christ_ is that Elias?!”
> 
> Tim followed Martin’s gaze and got an eyeful— _ha_ —of what remained of Elias Bouchard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Alas, I’ve been dealing with bone hurty disease. Whatever it is, it is frankly rude. Bad news is the next chapter won’t be out until next year.

The next person to talk to Tim was getting their kneecaps broken.

Violently.

Probably with the same pipe Elias used to murder Jürgen Leitner.

Because _apparently_ Elias murdered Jürgen Leitner.

With a pipe.

And also Gertrude.

Not with a pipe. With a gun.

And Rosie was dead. So that was just... _great_. That was great. Tim was going to go home to scream, now.

Then Sasha had stumbled out of Elias’ office like a bat out of hell and of-fucking- _course_ she had decided to go hide away in her office.

Just like old times. _Fantastic_.

He found her curled up under her desk, looking bruised and bloody and exhausted and guilty and he _hated_ her for it. Hated how much he had loved her, hated how quickly she had turned on him, betrayed his trust, treated him like collateral while she was always searching for bloody _answers_.

And now she was back with all her spooky evil powers and she couldn’t even hold it together long enough to help Tim even though she _knew_ how important the Circus was to him. What—who—it had _taken_ from him.

He walked out of that room before the anger boiling inside of him could spill over and...

And make him do something unjustifiably cruel.

When Sasha staggered out of her office—looking hyper-focused and disoriented all at once—he felt the teasing lilt curdle into mockery on his tongue.

And it killed him because Sasha looked so tired, and ashen, and scared, and his arms ached to reach out and wrap around her so tight that nothing could ever hurt her again.

The acid dripped from his tongue, forming the beginnings of a cruel jab when he noticed that her eyes were green instead of black.

_ Fuck this. _

So he did what any good Archival assistant would do... 

Absolutely nothing.

Thirty minutes later, he heard a scream.

No, not _a_ scream, _Sasha’s_ scream.

“ _TIM!_ ” Sasha shrieked, and the acid in his veins froze into ice.

_ Sasha. _

Every tendon in his body twitched instinctively and all he wanted to do was to stand and—oh, he was already standing.

It was a physical effort to restrain himself, and it hurt more to think about why he was doing it than it did to hold himself in place.

Martin—bless the idiot—had no such qualms.

He ran up the stairs after Martin, turned the corner down the hall, and Martin threw open the door to reveal...

“ _Holy shit,_ ” Tim breathed.

The room was filled with cobwebs and blood and—

Sasha slammed into him, crushing him in a white-knuckled, trembling hug.  


Shock was the only thing that kept him from wrapping his arms around her.

“Sash, what’s—“

“Oh _Christ_ is that Elias?!”

Tim followed Martin’s gaze and got an eyeful— _ha_ —of what remained of Elias Bouchard.

He snapped his head to look at Sasha, who just swallowed tearfully and nodded minutely.

Tim brushed her off and grabbed her shoulders a little rougher than he would have a year ago. “Sasha,” he demanded, “what happened?”

Sasha opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come unstuck from her throat. She just gestured down with a tilt of her head.

“It,” she croaked, “it dug his eyes out. Then it...” She averted her eyes shamefully, biting her lip. “It fed me. It fed the Eye.”

And yeah, sure, _maybe_ Tim could have come up with something more eloquent to say than “Huh.”

The mundanity of his response was enough to finally break Sasha. She erupted into a fit of hysterical giggles, pawing at his hands with her own and leaning into him.

_ Who bandaged those? Weren’t you bleeding? _

“It’s name is Jon,” she whispered conspiratorially. “And it’s holding Elias right now, see?”

Tim stared at her at a complete loss for words. His eyes flicked back to the door, which have swung itself nearly shut, but not so much that he couldn’t shove it open if he needed to run and drag Sasha with him—

If he needed to run.

Martin—who apparently needed to touch _everything_ in existence—nudged the tangle of distorted limbs onto its back.

Martin stared in wide-eyed shock and _recognition?_ “Is that _Jon?!_ ” he yelped.

So there was a lot to process here.

Apparently, the sheer insanity of _Martin_ of all people recognizing the spider monster was enough to snap Sasha from her stupor.

“What do you mean ‘ _is that Jon_ ’ obviously it’s Jon but how do _you_ know?!” Sasha sputtered.

“ _WHY DO YOU KNOW THE FUCKING SPIDER MONSTER’S NAME?!_ ” Tim screamed at both of them.

The figure on the floor twitched almost imperceptibly, the curled, claw-like fingers caked in blood and—

Martin shook his head in disbelief. “I was on a date with this guy, Jon,” he rambled, and just in case that wasn’t mind-shattering enough: “and it was so strange because he clearly knew about the entities, it was super nice up until the end, actually, he told me he was a web designer and _holy_ shit I went on a date with a spider monster,” he finished, eyes widening with realization.

“Wait,” Tim said, “you went on a _date_ with someone who knew about the entities and you _decided not to tell anyone?_ ”

“Well we sort of had other things to deal with,” Martin huffed. “Besides, sorry if I didn’t think you’d want to know about my _romantic_ life.” He huffed, and muttered, “ _Or lack of one.”_

While Tim was still trying to wrap his head around Martin’s date, the creature let out a abrupt wheezing hiss, not unlike pressured air escaping an oxygen tank.

Martin winced. “He looked a lot more... _less_ like this on the date.” He paused. “ _Well_ —“

And just as Tim had finally managed to forget the other poor saps trapped in this eldritch filing job with him, Melanie King chose that moment to open the door.

She stormed in, shoving past Tim— _rude_ —and demanded, “What the bloody hell are you all screaming about— _WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!_ ”

“ _WE KNOW!_ ” Sasha shrieked. Melanie whirled, fixing her blazing eyes on her.

Martin held up his hands, still trying to diffuse the situation, as if any of the ‘situations’ they had all had in the last year or so had even been _diffuse-able._

Sasha seemed to have snapped out of her borderline catatonic state only to fall back on defensiveness.

“ _Just_ ” —Sasha took a deep breath to steady herself— “help me move it to the cot, at least.”

There was a long beat of silence, and then...

“ _WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘MOVE IT TO THE’—_ “

“ _WHY THE FUCK WOULD WE—_ “

“ _I’M NOT TOUCHING THAT—_ “

“I’ll help!” Martin volunteered, a hysterical giggle tearing itself from his throat.

“Hold on,” Melanie said, “is that fucking _Jon_?”

Tim’s brain eloquently supplied, _What_ _ the fuck what the fuck what the flying fuck. _

That was finally enough to break Tim.

Tim whirled, and screamed, “HOW DO _YOU_ KNOW WHO IT IS?”

“BECAUSE THAT’S GEORGIE’S FUCKING _EX!_ ” Melanie screamed back.

“GEORGIE _BARKER_?!” Sasha shrieked.

“Wait,” Martin asked, in a tone that was far too calm and curious (and weirdly affronted) given the situation. “Georgie from _What the Ghost?_ Jon used to date _her_?”

Tim waved his hands around wildly. “NOT THE TIME, MARTIN.”

“Right! Right. Sorry, sorry...” he mumbled. “Just a fan is all.”

“Wait!” Sasha laughed a bit hysterically. “He wasn’t... he wasn’t lying about...”

Melanie glared at her. “How do you know about Georgie?”

The creature stirred, blinked up in confusion, and rasped, “ _Georgie...?_ ”

There was a questioning lilt to it, one that spoke of loss, tinged with desperation and sadness. It made him want to protect it the way he had failed to protect Dan—

Man, these creatures really were the fucking worst.

Melanie looked up from her phone, still texting rapidly, opened her mouth to ask, “Wait, did she—“ She thought better of. She scowled, continuing her borderline violent typing.

“That’s classic Georgie,” Melanie grumbled to herself, “always trying to help people that don’t want to be helped.”

“ _Right-o!_ ” Tim declared with forced cheer. “I don’t know what’s happening and I. Don’t. Want to _so_ —“ He cut himself off with a clap. “Marto, you went on a date with whatever that thing is, so you have the honor of trying to figure how to move it.”

“Wait,“ Martin cut in, “wasn’t Sasha the one who—“

“Thanks, bud!” Tim grinned, flashing a thumbs-up with his free hand.

Tim shoved the door open with his shoulder and practically dragged Sasha down the stairs with him. Sharp plastic dug into his side from where she was still gripping the tape recorder.

He tugged her down the stairs of the archive and into the main room.

“So, _Sash_ ,” Tim started in his usual bitter tone, “care to _beholden_ me about what the hell that thing was?”

Sasha swayed woozily, a far-off look in her eyes.

Tim snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, hey, Earth to Sasha!”

She jolted, then cleared her throat painfully. “Tim, I...”

Tim huffed, tired of waiting for answers, tired of being left in the dark and never _knowing_ anything.

For example, he hadn’t known that Sasha would collapse.

Tim rushed forward, too late to keep her from bruising against the floor. He lifted her head, checking for an injury. Angry as he was, he didn’t want her to get a concussion, not when it was Sasha—

Not when Sasha was the only one who could explain to him.

She blinked up at him owlishly, pupils contracting in the light of his phone’s torch.

“S-sorry,” she mumbled. “Guess I’m just tired after— _ha_ —after a big meal.” She gestured loosely at herself. “Monster and all that.”

She chuckled mirthlessly, then swallowed, looking away like she expected him to confirm her self-depreciation with his bitter, vindictive words.

She looked...

Hollow.

There were tears sliding silently down her cheeks, but her face was slack, just staring into space. Or maybe she was watching something, something far away from this place. Most likely nothing pleasant.  
  
He couldn’t imagine the Eye letting any of them enjoy themselves.

She had been his friend once, right? She had been...

He loved her once, didn’t he? And now he hated her, except... did he?

So Tim made a decision.

Tim decided he couldn’t afford to be angry right now. Not when every day could be their last. Not when their futile time left together in this world was so fleeting and corrupted by paranoia and vitriol.

There would be time to be angry later, but there might not be time for... this.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Sasha...” he said, feeling completely lost, unsure how to reconcile with his feelings. He felt exposed and vulnerable, having relied so long on anger to be his crutch, his shield against ever being harmed again.

“Please,” she whispered, and damn it, Tim couldn’t stand to watch her cry.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Sash, it’s just me. It’s Tim.” He smoothed a hand over her hair and was just a little put off by how her clothes and body had been torn and battered but her hair was done in immaculate cornrows, not a curl out of place.

He decided not to dwell on it until... later.

Sasha’s eyes abruptly widened, the weight on her gazes slamming into Tim like a freight train rolling over a penny. She stood on legs that shouldn’t reasonably been able to support her, before falling back down and clawing over the floorboards. “The tape,” she gasped. “You need to listen to the tape, the _tape_ —“ She scrambled around, searing frantically for the tape recorder.

Tim tried to calm her down, but she refused to settle her too-wide glassy eyes back on him, only calming down an increment when the tape recorder was gripped white-knuckle tight in her hand.

She stood and thrust it towards him, pleading, “Listen, need to listen to the tape, you need—“

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, “let’s get you sat down first. Deep breathe.” She stared at him in confusion before finally matching his exaggerated breathing. He took her arm gently, and tried not the think about the way she flinched. “You look like you’re about to topple over.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“Sorry.”

He decided not to respond to that.

He led Sasha to where they used to take their lunch breaks, the tea on the counter long gone cold.

He helped her sit, her trembling legs collapsing listlessly the moment they no longer had to carry her weight.

“Alright,” Tim said, “now we’re all sat down.”

Tim met her gaze and she quickly averted her own.

“Tim, I...” She dropped her face into those scarred, trembling hands. “I’m so sorry.”

He could sense the direction this was going in.

“Hey, we don’t have to do this right now,” he assured her, “it’s okay.”

This was possibly the worst time for her apologetic breakdown. She clearly wasn’t in the right mental state to control her words, and he didn’t know if he could reject her apologies if she just kept saying them.

Sasha shook her head and sniffed. “No, I... I need to do this. Please, Tim. I know I don’t deserve it but—“

“Okay.”

She nodded. “Tim, I’m... God, I’m so sorry for—for _everything_. I’m just so _scared_ and, and that’s not an excuse!” she stammered quickly, panicked that he would misinterpret her pleas for forgiveness. “It’s just—“ Her voice hitched and he noticed her shoulders were shaking with more than just nervous energy.

“Let’s listen to that tape,” Tim decided.

Sasha nodded, taking in a shuddering deep. “Yeah,” she whispered.

She placed the tape recorder onto the table. She didn’t click play.

Neither of them touched it.

The tape began to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No art for the next few chapters, I’m afraid! My wrists won’t cooperate. Who knows, maybe if I write well enough someone will make the art for me!
> 
> Anyways, so good old Jon PoV next. And yes, he gets that hug.


	7. Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then the strangest thing happened.
> 
> The strong arms wrapped around his thin torso, pining his arms to his sides. Jon’s first instinct was to thrash, to try to claw and kill and escape.
> 
> But it was so warm, so soft, so...
> 
> Safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I’ve been gone! School has been a lot lately, but here’s the next chapter! It’s some brief Martin PoV at the beginning and then the rest is Jon.
> 
> Some TWs for this chapter:  
> Allusions to feelings of worthlessness  
> Brief allusions to Martin’s mother  
> Panic Attacks  
> Body Horror (because... spider)
> 
> This chapter will have a solid amount of comfort

Martin was having just... just the _weirdest_ day.

He stared blankly at the creature lying in the cot—His cot really.  He’d certainly spent enough sleepless nights tossing and turning in those stiff sheets during the whole... _worms_ situation.

_Urgh, worms_.

Wow, only one date with this guy and he was already sleeping in Martin’s bed? Things were moving a little too quickly, what would _Mum_ think?

Nope, actually, he didn’t want to examine that train of thought.  


Honestly, though... what? Like genuinely just what the actual bloody Christ was going on and why in God’s name had Martin had just barely stopped short of _tucking the spider in_.

It— _he?_ —didn’t even come close to fitting on the cot. Sure, Martin wasn’t the smallest guy in either direction, but he wasn’t a bony an approximately two-point-one meter tangle of long bony limbs (too many limbs!) with too many joints (too many!!!) laying flopped over the mattress.

One of his six ( _six!_ ) hands was even curled outward like... he was waiting for someone to hold it.

Why was Martin seriously considering holding one of more of the spider monster’s hands?

_ Why did Martin want to cuddle the giant spider? _

Maybe it was a testament to how desperately lonely Martin was feeling that the whole scene was almost... domestic?

_ Christ, that’s sad. _

In his periphery, former Youtube sensation Melanie King lurked, tapping furiously away at her phone and looking at... Facebook? Was she on bloody _Facebook?!_

The creature—Jon?—stirred, mumbling something incomprehensible, and Martin damn near jumped out of his skin.

And somehow nothing that had happened since Martin took that job had prepared him for Melanie King— _of Ghost Hunt UK_ —to pull out a _fucking knife_.

_ What?! _

“ _Jesus!_ ” Martin yelped. “Put the knife away!”

“Not all of us are putting our faith in the good will of a monster,” Melanie griped.

“You said you knew him!” Martin protested.

“I said I knew who it _looks_ like,” Melanie snapped. “Chances are that _thing_ just stole Jon’s body and... well come on, you can’t tell me that thing looks anything like a human person.”

Martin huffed.

Melanie checked a notification, let out a sigh, and then turned to him.

“Room’s all yours,” she said, grabbing her coat. “I need to go pick up someone. Oh,” she added, “I’m leaving the knife.”

Martin gaped as she slapped the knife handle into his palm. He took it, still looking dumbfounded. “I—I don’t want a—“

“Take the knife,” Melanie snapped.

Martin laughed nervously. “Okay then, knife it is!”

Melanie left and he waved goodbye.

With a knife in his hand.

_Great_.

He dropped the knife on the table with a clatter and massaged his aching temples.

At least with Melanie, Martin felt like she knew what she was doing, albeit violently and stabby. Now it was just Martin, in charge of watching the creature that could probably dissect his intestines with a flick of the wrist, but Martin had a knife now so who _really_ had the advantage?

Speaking of...

Martin glanced over at the cot’s current occupant, Jonathan Sims. Part-time web designer, part-time spider monster and oh fucking _Christ_ that was a joke wasn’t it?

Was that cute? Was this gangly tangle of limbs still a viable dating option?

Cuddling would be hard with all the bones on the outside, but he was rather fuzzy. Plus, he could probably give like, three hugs at once. And hold six people’s hands. So that was something.

Also he had brutally gouged the eyes out of Elias and left behind a bloated, shriveled corpse, so that was terrifying.

But it was Elias so points in his favor.

Also Sasha’s hair looked really nice. No idea how he got those tiny braids done with like, thirty centimeter fingers, but Martin could appreciate good craftsmanship and _oh my God, Martin you’re thinking about a literal spider._

Martin seriously needed a better type. This was indicative of a larger issue.

Jon _was_ cute, though, so...

Besides, Martin always did have a soft spot for spiders.

What a time to be alive.

What a time.  


Jon did not understand what his purpose was here, in this strange new place. He did not know how to dangle endlessly over an bottomless pit when the thread he dangled from was not meant to be unbroken.

He did not know how to proceed in a world that he was not meant to be here for, trapped in an aching shell that was broken and cracked and warped.

It was all terrible existential, wasn’t it?

Oh dear.

The difficulty with bodies is that they are stubbornly connected to the mind. Jon could not spend forever drifting in hazy subconscious-consciousness when his body was, unfortunately, experiencing quite distracting fits of pain.

Pity.

That wasn’t all, though. That wasn’t the curious part. His fingers grazed the floor and his hair was plastered to his face, but what was truly interesting was the surface below it.

It seemed to be a mattress, cold and stiff but still blessedly soft. Maybe the softest bed he’d ever slept in since...

_Georgie_. He could have sworn he heard her name declared somehow outside the hazy residence of his own half-lucid mind.

Georgie.

Even the idea of such a coincidence was frankly preposterous, he resigned himself to believing. He did not have the capacity to consider the implications of him being wrong.

Stranded, abandoned... worthless.

A fate worse than any death, worse even than Becoming or Unbecoming. Maybe this was Mother’s new plan?

There was no time for panic, especially not when his panic was being leeched away by the Great Twisting Deceit.  


_ Truly, the bottom-feeders of this world. _

Unfortunately, the body is connected to the mind, and the mind was panicking; therefore, the body was as well.

His eyes (yes, the normal amount of eight) all shot open, revealing the words as a spinning kaleidoscope of colors and sound and whatever else the Twisting had managed to sink its fangs into him while he was not aware.

He gasped for breath, coughing hopelessly to dislodge the spiders that were surely still in there, nested in the warmth of his lungs.

He swallowed down his fear in heaving gasps, burning acidly down his throat.

He did not understand the fear rising up in his throat like bile—no, actually, it was bile. He curled over so his head was leaning over the bed and emptied the contents of his stomach—bile and blood—into a waste-bin that had very conveniently been moved for him.

Jon did not understand where he was, or why he was even here at all. Was this all Mother’s plan, or had he simply failed Her? Had he become obsolete? Did She decide that she wanted to punish him for his failings Herself?

He didn’t _know_. All he knew was that he had been abandoned, pulled directionless on strings whose puppeteers he did not know the intentions of.

All he knew was he had finally done it. He had finally failed Mother so badly that She had abandoned him, untethered and helplessly falling with no webs to catch him.

She had forsaken him further than any Avatar of the Forsaken even could, left him directionless and useless, with no reason to exist outside of his own, inescapable selfishness.

A sob forced its way out of his throat, dry and raw and scratchy. His finger nails dug helpless crescents into his arms, cracking through the thin shell and leaving behind a trail of flayed flesh and gouged gashes.

Perhaps this was his fate: a final punishment.

To be worthless forever.

Perhaps some part of him had foolishly expected the Archivist to be kind to him. But it had seemed he was simply too worthless, too _distasteful_ for his consumer.

Or perhaps it was out of a false sense of morality? The clawing ache inside of him—the crushing, agonizing pain of his worthlessness—hurt worse than being torn apart ever could.

He knew he was not a perfect son, but this fate seemed too cruel to befit a creature even so disgraceful as himself.

He did not know, he did not _know_ —

And then the strangest thing happened.

The strong arms wrapped around his thin torso, pining his arms to his sides. Jon’s first instinct was to thrash, to try to claw and kill and escape.

But it was so warm, so soft, so...

Safe.

And for reasons Jon could not comprehend... he began to cry. He knew it was sad and pathetic, always sniffling with tears whenever the world didn’t go his way, petulant and spoiled, but....

This time, Jon didn’t think he was crying because something had happened. He felt like he was crying because this _had_ never happened to him, not for a good long while at least. Being held, shushed, rocked so gently it had to be reflexive, and feeling...

Safe.

“That’s right, that’s good, just breathe,” the figure hushed him.

That voice, he remembered that voice. It was an old memory and a very new one.

“Martin?” Jon guessed.

“Yep,” Martin replied.

Eloquent. Jon laughed at that.

Martin seemed confused, but his shoulders relaxed against Jon’s back, probably because he has confirmation that Jon was a) not going to kill him on the spot and b) no longer having a mental breakdown against his chest.

The absurdity of it was enough to send Jon into another small fit of laughter.

“S-sorry.” Jon smiled ruefully, knowing Martin could not see it. “I’m not quite healed enough to make my form less....” Jon paused. “Actually...”

Jon felt his arms twist and meld, cracking and crumbing and reshaping his body into something more human, albeit scrawny and half-dead looking.

Probably because any time Jon spent human _had_ been spent half-dead. More or less.

Martin made a sound somewhere between “urgh” and “ _hhhh_ ” and loosened his embrace as Jon’s bones twisted under his fingertips. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant feeling, a sentiment Jon knew better than anyone else.

There was silence for a long moment, and then Jon asked, “Did you listen to the tape?”

A pause. “Yeah. Sasha sort of... herded everyone else into this room to have us all listen to it.” He chuckled drily. “Rather cramped, actually.”

“Huh.”

“You know,” Martin sighed, squeezing his arms gently, “I’m a bit upset that you only took me out on that date because you wanted me out of the way.”

Jon twisted around in Martin’s arms to look at him in mild distress. “Martin, I took you on that date because I liked you.”

“Oh! Uh—“

”Because you were nice to me and also quite attract—” —Jon coughed— “because, uh...” Jon’s face was getting warm. That shouldn’t have been physically possible, since he was effectively cold-blooded. He cleared his throat. “You make good tea.”

Martin squinted at him. “How would you _know_ that, though?”

“Oh, uh... I gave a statement here. Around a half-decade ago. You heard on the tape, I’m sure of it.”

“But that still doesn’t—“

“Gertrude—after dooming me to this current fate, of course—carted me off to you. You made me tea, a long while ago. It was...” Jon trailed off nostalgically. “It was nice. Also,” Jon huffed affectionately, “you gave me that stupid poetry book.”

“I thought you hated poetry!”

“I do!” Jon replied, “It was some stupid book but you left all these notes and annotations in it and sometimes when I was lonely I would—It was just the fact that you... you do kindness so easily, but then people leave you and I...” Jon chuckled bitterly. “Which is exactly what I was going to do. Huh.”

Jon dropped his head to rest against Martin’s shoulder—a man who was effectively a complete stranger but had still decided to be kind.

“It couldn’t have been _that_ good of tea,” Martin grumbled.

Jon snorted. “My standards are dire these days, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” Martin astonished. “I thought tea was a specialty of the Web.”

Jon shrugged. “Annabelle makes tea, but I don’t like it quite as much.”

“Oh?” Martin teased, “too much lemon, oversteeped? Does she add too much of something?”

“Yes,” Jon grimaced. “Spiders.”

“Oh!”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re lot shorter than I thought,” Martin blurted.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Jon spluttered incredulously. “I’ll have you know that I am a respectable—“

“You’re like, one-sixty in _heels!_ ” Martin rushed. “Not that that’s a bad thing!”

“I am one hundred fifty-three _point_ six _thank you very much_ ,” Jon declared huffily.

Then Martin started to laugh, so Jon started to laugh.

“This is so ridiculous,” Martin laughed, wiping away overwhelmed tears. “All of this is just so—“

Jon slapped his small, scarred hand over Martin’s mouth. “Hush,” he breathed.

The air of the room had changed. Whatever light, floaty feel there had been crashed down into his stomach with enough force to make Jon dizzy.

There was someone outside this door, someone that wanted desperately to feel his thin, watery blood beneath their claws.

There would only be one creature so foolish—so blinded by the crisp taste of wind and blood as to try to hunt a servant of Mother.

And there was only one creature bloodthirsty enough to actually win.

“There is a Hunter outside this door,” Jon whispered.

As the door slammed open violently against the wall, Jon stared down the Hunter with a snarl made of curved fangs.

Jon may have been abandoned by his Mother, but he was still Her child.

And Mother’s children were not, and had never been, _prey_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! I’m thinking of making art again for this. Next chapters will likely be Daisy/Basira and then Melanie


	8. Partner In Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were too many things in this situations that Basira did not understand, and she was falling, falling, grasping that the wicked threads of logic as her head pounded and vision swam and spun.
> 
> It gasped theatrically and grinned wide, bearing large fangs dripping with clear drops of venom.
> 
> “Nobody... move!” It giggled hysterically to itself. “Oh right, you can’t!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter:
> 
> Cannon-Typical Police Brutality  
> Helplessness  
> Gun Violence  
> References to Past Police Brutality

Basira made a point to understand everything around her. She understood that she was now trapped in a creepy archive run by some egotistical bureaucratic dipshit whose life she was apparently now tied to.

She also understood that she didn’t exactly know what to do with that assessment.

Don’t get her wrong, she had ruminated over it for perhaps _slightly_ more hours than was healthy, but you can’t exactly ruminate your way out of deals with capitalist demons.

So, what do you do when you’ve just signed your soul away to the literal embodiment of privileged academia?

She decided not to dwell on her non-answer.

There were very few things that Basira did not understand. Daisy was not one of those things.

She understood that Daisy would take soon-to-be-missing people into the woods only to emerge with that predatory gleam in her eyes somehow softer and sharper at the same time. She understood that the wind sang silken songs into her ears.

They had gotten drunk one night, ya Allah, it had to be almost two years ago, and Daisy had told her it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Basira asked what it sounded like, and with a long, empty look, Daisy had simply responded, “Blood.”

And sometimes when she kissed her, Basira swore she could taste the phantom metallic tang of it on Daisy’s lips.

Basira understood that Daisy was dangerous, and when she had seen James, terrified and bleeding with a pocketknife pressed dully to her throat... for a second when Basira looked between them she couldn’t tell who the monster was supposed to be.

But that was always the thing with dangerous people, wasn’t it. Because Basira knew that Daisy was dangerous, she knew she’d killed people—or at least what was left of them when the humanity was removed—and she knew that maybe some of those people didn’t deserve anything close to what punishment Daisy had decided as their fate. Daisy would play judge, jury, and executioner, and Basira would look the other way. 

Because they were monsters, it was... well it was _bad_ , obviously, that Daisy would...

But those people were all monsters, so it wasn’t as if Daisy was just—it wasn’t like—she wasn’t like those other—It wasn’t like that, okay?

Daisy was dangerous, but she wasn’t dangerous to Basira. Never to Basira.

Daisy would tear out throat after throat but she would never lay a finger on Basira. Daisy would be terrible to the world but good to her.

And that was always the way it seemed to be with these things. And given the people out there, maybe that was the better of the two.

Daisy was her partner, in more ways than could ever be expressed by the simple definitions of the words.

Didn’t everyone deserve a partner? Someone to watch their back, someone they could finally relax and let their metaphorical hair down with?

Basira had always followed Daisy’s decisions, not because she always trusted them, but because she knew Daisy would do the same for her. And Daisy always did.

Except, there was just the slightest bit of doubt tugging at her gut. Daisy had been prepared to murder James, someone Basira knew and had liked. James was funny, a bit... _eccentric_ but incredibly curious and technologically skilled. For god’s sake, the woman had been _stapling_ documents!

It also didn’t escape her notice that the larger man, Martin, would follow her and discretely replace the staples with paperclips.

For all her trying, Basira couldn’t seem to fit James into that monster-shaped mold in her head.

But even Basira couldn’t deny that something in the air was different here. Something was _wrong_.

Something so deeply, intrinsically wrong.

And then she saw what was left of Elias Bouchard, and she knew that Daisy was right, that she never should have doubted her. 

Because whatever did... _that_ fit into the meta-cognitive definition of a monster that Basira so resolutely and adamantly justified to herself.

Basira almost struggled to keep up with Daisy as she bolted down the stairs, a predatory snarl etched into her face.

But Basira had seen that corpse, and she didn’t want Daisy to end up like that. She grabbed Daisy’s arm. Daisy didn’t halt for another three strides, dragging Basira along as she nearly tripped down the steps.   


Then Daisy seemed to notice her, paused, and fixed Basira with that easy, wolffish grin.

Basira let go of her arm.

Melanie seemed startled by their arrival; she was in the middle of zipping up the bag she had slung over her shoulder.

A bit wide-eyed, Melanie asked, “Basira, what...?”

Daisy shoved past her and stalked closer to Document Storage, and Melanie’s eyes filled with... was that fear? “Wait, stop!” she called after Daisy, before scowling and running after her. Basira followed.

“Wait, goddamnit,” Melanie panted, “hold on, hey Miss Police Brutality, wait up—“

Up ahead, Melanie grabbed Daisy’s sleeve in an attempt to stall her. Daisy whirled on her with a low, warning growl and shoved her back. Melanie stumbled back before colliding, _hard_ and painfully against the metal archive shelves.

Daisy had told Basira earlier that she could practically taste the acrid waves of Slaughter rolling off the short woman, so Basira expected Melanie to scowl back, to launch herself at Daisy and _fight back_.

Instead, she looked cowed, eyes flickering around rapidly. Daisy growled and Melanie pushed herself flat against the shelf, almost like she was trying to sink through it.

Daisy licked her lips, like the fear was a decadent delicacy.

Then, as if she had never been interrupted, Daisy continued her trot, paused outside a sealed down. Daisy glanced back at her, almost as if waiting for affirmation, pupils blown wide.

And Basira knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that whatever lay beyond that dangerous. But Basira had deprived her of a hunt, and the bloodlust thrummed through her love’s veins.

It was like a poison, and there was only one way to leech that poison out.

Despite herself, Basira felt her head ever-so-minutely twitch into a nod.

Daisy turned and kicked the door open. The slam of the door against the inside wall resonated loud enough to echo around in her skull for several seconds.

The door opened, and Basira seized.

The noise was enough to draw Stoker and James running and stumbling respectively into the room.

They froze the moment they crossed the threshold, limbs frozen in place, Stoker trembling ever-so-slightly as he tried to move.

Basira felt her stomach twisting into intricate knots. Her limbs felt frozen, her skin crawled, and beyond all that she was _terrified_ like she had never been before.

And beyond that door stood a short, wiry man—no, not a man, not human—with medium-dark brown skin, long curly black hair streaked through with silvery-white, and eyes...  _Ya lahwi_ those eyes... Darker than any eyes had a right to be but instead of deep and endless they were simply void of anything at all. You could spend centuries in those eyes and you would be alone, without even darkness.

And for a moment those eyes fixed on her and it _smiled_ , never reaching those empty, endless eyes. She wanted to shiver, to scream, maybe even to beg. But her limbs were locked in place and she felt it now, the invisible strings holding her infinitely still, the shiver trapped with nowhere to go erupting under her skin in nauseating waves.

It removed its gaze from her, the relief crashing over her that froze above her into freezing water that moment she saw where those eyes had landed.

_ Daisy. _

Daisy. Daisy. _Daisy._

Basira tried to turn to head, to glance desperately over at anyone else to see their reaction, to ask— _beg_ —for help.

Instead, she could only watch as a translucent string tightened ever so minutely around the pale throat of her partner, scowl frozen on her face but eyes afraid.

_Min faDlik,_ she wanted to beg it, _arjuu almaädhira._

Its eyes flicked rapidly between the occupants of the room beyond its door, and a maniacal grin cracking over its features, more akin to a mask than a face made of flesh.

It laughed and curled into itself, unnatural and jerky as if in pain, and laughed. The man behind it—Martin—seemed frozen too, with a look in his eyes more akin to soft concern than terror.

There were too many things in this situations that Basira did not understand, and she was falling, _falling_ , grasping that the wicked threads of logic as her head pounded and vision swam and spun.

It gasped theatrically and grinned wide, bearing large fangs dripping with clear drops of venom.

“Nobody... move!” It giggled hysterically to itself. “Oh right, you can’t!” It felt into another painful-looking fit of delirious giggles at its own joke.

“I’ve never been a fan of hunters,” it continued, “but none of them before have ever been _stupid_ enough to hunt a _Weaver_.”

As it spoke, the terror rose in Basira, ears stuffed with static, and the world far too bright.

She Knew all too suddenly that she was being puppeted by a being puppeteer and puppet all in one.

And Daisy, Daisy, _Daisy._

The thread began to tighten, and Daisy hiccuped in a gasp.

It flicked its wrist and Daisy jolted, legs locked but upper body now free, arms twitching, fingers scrabbling.

Basira could do nothing but watch as that silk garrote tightened... and tightened...

Daisy clawed at her throat, sharp fingernails scrambling for leverage against the thin spider silk. Her face purpled, drops of blood beading around her neck, scratching gouges into her flesh in an attempt to free her windpipe from the crushing torment.

Basira’s world turned rusty red and her mouth tasted like dirt and blood and cold wind.

It stared down at Daisy, her eyes bulging under the pressure and webbed with red veins and drawing in choked gasps that never actually seemed to make their way down her crushed windpipes.

_ Daisy. _

Daisy had always been there for her. They were partners, and that meant they had each other’s backs, no matter what.

_ No matter what. _

Basira had never questioned that until today.

But seeing James, that terrified look of fear and panic in her eyes... that wasn’t the look of a monster caught, it was the look of a rabbit seconds away from a wolf’s devouring jaws.

That was a look of prey.

Basira had liked James, she was funny, if a little invasive, but she certainly wasn’t a _monster_.

But Basira still hadn’t fully believed that. She had been skittish with doubt and indecision, wondering if Daisy could see something she couldn’t. She had promised Daisy to have her back, but she hadn’t back there, had she?

Except now, with that puppet’s empty black eyes fixated on her partner, pulling a thread around her throat, _into_ her skin...

Basira knew two things.   


_One_ , James wasn’t a monster, because standing next to an actual one she didn’t compare.

_Two_ , that when she looked at Daisy’s face she saw James’ expression clear as day written over her features. 

The look of prey.

And if Basira had learned anything from watching that dynamic play out in reverse year after year, it was that predators tended to block out all distractions and lower their guard. Bloodlust stains the vision red around the edges, tunnel vision with crimson flare.

Basira’s fingers twitched. Her arm, her wrist, her elbow, even the pressure around her chest seemed to loosen—the part that wasn’t panic, at least.

Slowly, shakily, and painfully, Basira moved her wrist to grab her gun. She bit down the urge to hiss at the sting of the thread biting into her skin, and aimed with her wrist.

Daisy, the woman she was in love with— _had_ been in love with for so many years—was growing limper, blood vessels bursting and her scleras filled with blood.

She couldn’t aim for the head, last she heard those things tended to have spiders in there. And she couldn’t even begin to guess where its heart was.

Only one guaranteed way to stop it.

She aimed her gun.

And shot its hands.

It screeched and Daisy wheezed, swayed, and passed out, her body hitting the floor with a dull _thud_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the inconsistent uploading schedule. School has been giving me no time to breathe, but I promise that I will upload even if I seemingly disappear for a few weeks.
> 
> I really appreciate the support, especially the comments that tell me your favorite lines and stuff. I love love LOVE the comments I’ve been getting, and I love knowing what you think about my work!
> 
> Originally I wasn’t going to include these two as a couple because people were debating if it was good representation for lesbians etc etc and then I realized I am a lesbian and I do what a want (within reason). So, for Valentines Day you all receive morally dubious lesbians, huzzah!

**Author's Note:**

> Cover art can be found [here](https://gay-walmart-official.tumblr.com/post/636807374281293824/its-polite-to-knock)


End file.
